


Firebird

by Enchantable



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Major Character Injury, Past Abuse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 123
Words: 306,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25413787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable
Summary: “We need a healer,” Arthur yells.“Bring her!” The Red Spear says. Arthur looks at her and shakes his head, “well every other healer is occupied!”“Not her,” Arthur says.“We need him alive, she—““Is right here,” Pym says, picking up her bag. She concentrates on the amulet, “and doesn’t need to be spoken for,” she looks at Arthur and sees him wavering, “I’m better than no healer.”After everything Pym has faced down, Squirrel bringing the Weeping Monk to her isn't something she was prepared to deal with. As in all things, she adjusts.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight & Nimue (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Nimue & Pym (Cursed), Pym & Squirrel | Percival, Pym/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 1099
Kudos: 1243





	1. Ash: Part 1

The amulet makes her brave. 

Pym knows that Nimue would say otherwise, but Nimue’s not here. It’s just her. Well, it’s her and dozens of others, but she’s not sure she can recall feeling this alone. The odd crying fits haven’t helped. She’s tired and she can feel grief gnawing at her like a living thing. She tells herself if crying is the only thing she gets from it, she’s one of the lucky ones. So she tells herself the amulet makes her brave, because she doesn’t feel capable of bravery at the moment but if she has the amulet then she’s got no reason to be afraid. No matter how scared she might be.

“We need a healer,” Arthur yells.

“Bring her!” The Red Spear says. Arthur looks at her and shakes his head, “well every other healer is occupied!”

“Not her,” Arthur says.

“We need him alive, she—“

“Is right here,” Pym says, picking up her bag. She concentrates on the amulet, “and doesn’t need to be spoken for,” she looks at Arthur and sees him wavering, “I’m better than no healer.”

He caves and leads her to the tent. She tells herself there’s no need to be afraid of what’s on the other side. She is better than no healer and she’s wearing the amulet. Those are the two things that matter most. Arthur goes in first like a shield. But Pym forgets everything the moment she sees Squirrel. Bruised and cut and filthy but very much alive.

“Squirrel!”

“Pym!”

She’s never been so glad for a hug in her entire life. He clings to her tightly and she squeezes him back just as hard. They’re two people who have lost so much in the world. It amazes her that it gives anything back to them. She wants to question the kindness but the past months have taught her that she should savor the sweet when she can. So she focuses on hugging Squirrel. And only after a good long moment does she open her eyes to look at his cuts.

Only then does she see her patient.

“Get behind me!” She shoves the boy behind her, going for the only weapon she can find in the moment. The amulet makes her brave, but the anger is all her own. Especially for the monster sitting there, “you can’t have him!” She spits.

“It’s alright,” Squirrel says. Her fingers tighten on his shoulder, “Pym it’s okay! He isn’t going to hurt either of us!”

Squirrel slips out of her grasp and Pym’s heart leaps into her throat as he puts himself in between her and the monk. The monster. Pym looks to see Arthur standing with his hand on his sword, looking very much like he wants to gut the monk but not doing it. Why he isn’t, Pym doesn’t know. She knows Squirrel well enough to know there’s no danger he won’t go after. But Arthur’s hesitation makes her stop. When he’s confident that Pym isn’t going to gut the monk, Squirrel takes a few steps back and tugs at his sleeve. The hooded monk turns towards him.

“You should take your hood off so she can see your face,” he says.

There’s a soft sound of agreement and to her amazement the monk moves his hand from his side and reaches up, pushing back his hood. He looks terrible and a part of Pym is savagely glad. No matter how much younger he seems than she expected, no matter how tired and pale he looks, she’s glad he’s injured. She hopes all the Paladins and the Church and all of them are. His eyes close briefly and the healer in her recognizes the blood his fingertips have left on his skin. She’s more used to seeing the blood on him being absorbed by his cloak.

“He saved me,” Squirrel says.

“After he burned our home down,” Pym retorts, “and hunted us like animals,” she swallows, “I’m sorry you’re going to have to find someone else. Squirrel come with me.”

The monk gives Squirrel a look that Pym doesn’t like. Squirrel may be prone to danger, but he has no business being friends with a monster like that. She doesn’t care that people said the same thing about her friendship with Nimue, this isn’t the same thing. Nimue was not a murder, not like this man. Letting him bleed out is the least he deserves for all he’s taken. Squirrel should not be exchanging anything with him, including looks like that.

“No,” Squirrel says, “I’m not leaving him.”

“Arthur help me,” she says, motioning him in.

Squirrel looks between them and Pym knows he’s about to slip away. Logically she knows he shouldn’t be running around a battlefield, that it’s a terrible place for a child. But literally anywhere is better than in front of this monster. She’s ready to close off his escape route when instead of running, Squirrel plants himself firmly and draws himself up as much as his meager height will allow.

“He’s Fey,” he says.

“What?”

There’s the oddest ringing in her ears, Pym thinks she may faint. She’s certainly lost her mind because she swears she heard Squirrel tell her that the man in front of her is Fey. She’s always heard the rumors that he had some kind of supernatural ability but they were rumors. The Paladins didn’t want anything to do with the Fey, much less adopt one as one of their own. The only thing more insane would be one of them betraying everyone like that. Arthur is by her side to steady her but she shakes him off. If he’s Fey, that changes everything.

“Show me.”

“Look at his marks,” Squirrel says.

“They could be faked,” she shoots back.

“Dirt,” the monk rasps.

“What?”

Squirrel ducks down and fills his hands with the dirt, holding it up. The monk looks at her as he touches his fingertips to the dirt. Green covers his skin. It’s unmistakeable. The dirt turns dry and arid as some of the color comes back into his skin. He could fake the marks, he cannot fake that. She pinches the flesh of her arm to make sure she is awake. She prays that she isn’t but the pain in her arm tells her that she is. She doesn’t dare grasp the amulet but she focuses hard on it. The monk, this monster, he’s one of them. And if she leaves him to die then she will be no better than them. She shoves her knife into her apron pocket and moved forward.

“Take him somewhere safe,” she says to Arthur.

“No, I want to stay with him,” Squirrel says, “Pym let me stay!” Arthur shepherds the boy out, “Lancelot! I’ll come back for you!”

She ignores the shiver that goes down her spine as they vanish and focuses instead on undoing the fastening around the monk’s throat. She throws it back and looks at the wet patch on his stomach. She takes off his tunic and his strange undershirt, putting both of those aside. He doesn’t help and she doesn’t want him to. His skin is a patchwork of scars and bleeding wounds, all made worse by whatever garment he was wearing. If she hadn’t known he was Fey before, the punishment on his skin would have been a give away. She inspects the worst of the wounds, a deep cut in his side. Though it looks slightly healed.

“Lay back I need to sew this,” she says. He tries but she winds up needing to help him, “don’t thank me for this,” she says when his lips start to move, “I don’t want your gratitude.”

She threads her needle and stitches his skin back together. He doesn’t react. It’s unsettling because even the raiders react. Just a little. He lays perfectly still like he’s been trained to do it. Pym is just glad he’s not like the raider who tried to slug her when she was putting his nose back in place. She helps him sit up and walks behind him. She’s seen many horrors lately, many things that have made her stomach turn. She’s adjusted. She was starting to think nothing could make her feel sick.

The sight of that hateful symbol carved into the back of the monk’s head shows her how wrong she was.

The rest of him isn’t much better when she looks down, but it doesn’t make her skin crawl. She can deal with the wounds that hatchmark across his back. All of them are irritated and it looks as though he’s still got his horrid shirt on. It’s easier to focus on those instead of the back of his skull. She moves his clothes out of the way.

“Your name’s Lancelot?” She says.

“It was,” he says.

She rolls her eyes at his dramatics as she drags the nearby pail of water over. ‘It was’. A fittingly ridiculous answer for a fittingly ridiculous man. When he burned her home down, she was weaker than she is now. She doubts she could have lifted the bucket.

“Well, Lancelot, this is going to sting,” she says and dumps most of its contents across his torn flesh.

This time he isn’t so quiet.

She lets herself enjoy it, she can deal with the guilt later.

“Those weren’t life threatening,” he spits out.

“You haven’t seen them, have you?” She says, “whatever shirt you’re wearing got in them. They’re infected. I have to clean them out,” she hefts the bucket again “hold still.”

His fingers curl around the table as she cleans them out. There’s no bandaging them so the cleaning will have to do. His scalp looks fine and she doesn’t want to touch it unless she has to. She walks back around the table and sets the bucket down. He looks slightly less terrifying and slightly more like a drowned cat. Pym wets a cloth with what remains of the bucket and sets about cleaning the cuts on his face. When she gets close to the marks, he pulls back.

“Hold still,” she says, “I’ll touch them if you keep moving,” she sees the confusion in his face, “you don’t know anything about being a Fey.”

“No.”

“Good,” she says, finishing cleaning up the cut on his cheek.

She drops the cloth when she’s done and grabs the hateful shirt as well. She hasn’t gone through the trouble of saving a monster so that he can die on her. Fey help each other, no matter what. That doesn’t mean she relishes the idea of doing it again.

“I’ll need to check on them tomorrow,” she says, “don’t make me look for you.”

He nods and she moves towards the entrance. The amulet makes her brave. The amulet makes her brave enough to turn around. To walk like she is walking away from a bad dream and not a monster.

“Than—“ he begins.

The amulet makes her brave enough to whip around and stare the monster down.

“I said don’t thank me,” she snaps.

His mouth snaps shut.

She burns the shirt and doesn’t regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where this came from. But let me know if anyone is willing to come on this crackship journey with me.


	2. Ash: Part 2

His back is one big itch.

He deserves worse, he’s accustom to worse. The absence of it is what makes the itch unbearable. It’s an itch without purpose. It brings him no closer to salvation, it doesn’t take him closer to His grace. It does not show his repentance for his sins, for his blood, for his kind. No bricks are laid on the road to salvation with this discomfort. It simply is. He longs something to split the skin so he can have something real again. He dresses with what is left of his clothing. His swords and blades have largely been lost in keeping Squirrel safe. He remembers the punishment for losing a good blade. It wasn’t a mistake you made more than a handful of times. Now he almost wishes for the punishment so the world would make sense again.

He’s not sure if he’s allowed to leave the tent. Everything here is makeshift, he can’t tell if this is medical or if it serves some other purpose. It would be easy to slip away and he would be lying if he said the thought wasn’t tempting. Here at least he’s among Fey. It turns out the damn knight was correct, Fey respect the bonds of brotherhood. He has a level of protection here he’s not foolish enough to throw away, even if he wants very badly to be anywhere else. The loss of weapons, being surrounded by the Fey, hell even fighting the Paladins. All of it are things he’s pushed to the back of his mind. They are all the impure thoughts he’s struggled so hard to rise above. There’s no escaping the hellfire now, he supposes he should make his peace with it. And yet a part of him whispers that anyone who could do what they did to him a second time knew nothing of what was right or wrong.

“Lancelot!”

He opens the tent flap as Squirrel comes barreling though, his arm streaking out and managing to catch the boy before he goes face first into the corner of the table. He’s starting to get the sense that the boy is prone to this kind of behavior. He wouldn’t call him fearless, but he is very brave. His cuts and bruises have been cleaned. After days of riding with him, he knows he has no major injuries. Still he feels relieved seeing that he’s been tended to. He’s not someone who tends to people. Somehow defending the boy from the Trinity Guard was easier than keeping him alive on their relatively quiet journey. He understands blood and death and the chase. Not the quiet moments in between. Those he has always loathed. He’s not foolish enough to think these people are going to let him do what he is good at, simply because a boy says he saved him. The threat of more quiet moments looms large.

“I’m supposed to take you away from the fighting,” Squirrel says. He raises an eyebrow at the boy, “I’m supposed to go away, but I said I wouldn’t leave you.”

“It’s time for you to leave me,” he says.

“No it’s not,” Squirrel argues, “you saved me. I’m not going to leave you here to die.”

He’s not sure if Squirrel is referring to the skirmishes going on outside or if they are discussing his execution. Maybe the knight was wrong and brotherhood only extends so far. It doesn’t matter, the longer he stays here without a weapon the more danger he’s in. He can’t say if it will be an enemy because the only ally he’s certain he has here is the boy besides him, and after everything he won’t put him in harms way. Not like the others. The boy won’t be collateral damage as long as he draws breath into his lungs. If that condemns him to the hellfires, he can live with that.

“I cannot go walking out there,” he says.

“Yeah I guess people will see you,” Squirrel says, his brows drawing together, “can’t you just stay away from them? Since you can sense them?”

It’s an odd thing to hear about his gift talked about without any murderous intent. Though he imagines there are many here who would call his heart still beating a murderous thing. Just as he knows the loss of his brothers should bother him, he knows their hatred should as well. Both leave a longing for the emotions, but not the emotion itself. He thinks that God has just been exchanged for another thing he is meant to strive for without ever actually attaining. It is not an exchange he wants to make, he would prefer to strive for Grace. Emotions belong to the screaming monsters he has spent a lifetime dispatching. His control over them is what makes him different. The fact that he’s sitting in a Fey camp, not sure who is going to get to him first, that makes him the same.

“Lancelot?” He turns and is surprised to see Squirrel looking nervous, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says. Squirrel looks unsure, “I was in my thoughts again.”

“Oh, right,” Squirrel perks up, “well we should go somewhere safer and then you can think all you want, I’ll find somewhere quiet.”

The boy accepts without questioning that he’s not a good conversationalist, though he supposes it’s usually easier to accept the truth. No-one has ever wanted to speak to him more than absolutely necessary. He’s not sure Squirrel has had more than a handful of necessary words. The rest is all just—something else. Silence is not his forte, neither is self preservation. The boy is lucky or blessed or both. But his acceptance is something far closer to the Grace and Brotherhood that he’s always been on the fringes of. It’s something pure. He cannot help but marvel at it.

“You go ahead, I will follow,” he says, “we shouldn’t be seen together,” Squirrel hesitates, “go.”

It’s difficult to track one when there are so many, but he picks him out. Spending so much time together over the past few days has made it easier. He slips around the rest of them easily enough, keeping distance between him and the boy. Squirrel scurries away from the few odd fights and leads him into the nearby woods. He’s not egotistical enough to think that no-one has seen him, but maybe they reason that he knows where they are anyway. If he was trying to keep from himself, the practical thing to do would be to cut his throat before they move camp. That and hope the Paladins didn’t find another to track. He’s not foolish enough to think he’s the only one or that he won’t be replaced. But he’s not prepared to use that to barter for his life. Not now anyway. Squirrel leads him to a clearing where there’s a handful of tents and slips into one. He waits a moment and then follows.

“We’re safe now,” Squirrel says.

The tent is a lot homier than the grander ones he’s used to sleeping in. The forest is closer now. It envelopes him. Dirt is dragged haphazardly in, everything is darker and enclosing. But it doesn’t feel claustrophobic. He doesn’t feel like a dark spot on an otherwise pristine white and red canvas. He needs to hide still but the places to do so are plentiful.

It feels almost like a place he belongs.

He ignores the shiver that runs through him. The call of home has been something he’s been taught is wrong. His Brothers are nowhere near and still he feels exposed. Waiting for punishment. Or maybe its God who is looking down at him. His punishment will be far greater than what his Brothers could inflict. The flesh is in service to the soul, but only God can punish the latter. He watches as Squirrel closes the front of the tent and then walks up to him fearlessly and presses food and a waterskin into his hands. He’s used to fasting, but his stomach rumbles at the food and he decides to risk it. If it is poisoned he can hope it will be a quick death. When the taste of fresh food and water hits his mouth, he thinks even if it’s a slow death it might be worth it.

“It’s good right?” Squirrel whispers, “I saved you the best parts,” he pauses, realizing the boy is sacrificing his own food, “I went back for more so they wouldn’t know.”

“What’s your favorite part?” He asks softly.

“The bread,” the boy says, “do you like it? Is it like the bread where you come from?”

“I don’t remember the bread where I come from,” he admits.

“Well try ours, maybe it can be your new bread.”

He doesn’t know how to feel when his hand wraps around the bread. He’s spent a lifetime being told bread is Holy. He’s spent a lifetime trying to feel the way that he sees the Brothers feel when they eat the body of their Lord. He’s pretended and strove for it but he’s never felt anything different. Not truly. He takes a corner and puts it on his tongue. Sweet explodes in his mouth. Sweet and light, like a memory of a memory. Like something he had once as a boy. It’s dark in the tent, there’s no reason for his eyes to close. It doesn’t help his mind to chase the memory that whispers on the edges of his mind as he chews. But he does it anyway. There’s nothing concrete, it’s all ghosts and whispers, but swallowing feels as though he’s taken something more than bread into him. He lets it linger in his mouth, not trusting anything. Including his own voice.

“It’s very good,” he says. He tears the bread in half and hands the bigger chunk to the boy, “here.”

Squirrel takes it with a bright smile that he can just make out in the shadows and drops down next to him. The shadows have always felt familiar, for the first time they feel like somewhere he wants to be. For the past few days this has been their routine. Though for the first time they are somewhere much closer to safe. For the boy anyway. He’s spent the past few days more or less awake the entire time, even he can tell that he needs rest. When Squirrel has curled up in his bedroll, he pulls the plate and cup closer. They’re makeshift weapons at best, but they are better than nothing.

He puts his feet to the ground so he can tell if someone is coming and draws his cloak closer.

For the first time in a long time, he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re off on whatever this is! I love feedback so feel free to comment etc. you can also come scream with me about the weeping monk on my [tumblr](https://planetsam.tumblr.com/)


	3. Ash: Part 3

“I need you to take me to your friend.”

Pym’s eyes snap open.

There’s just enough space in the tent to put something of a screen between them. Their resources are limited, there are so few tents she almost feels bad taking half of one. The screen she tacked up was to keep Squirrel from seeing her come in with blood on her. To think, she didn’t want to scare him. It was absolutely not to let him sneak his monster into their tent. Pym feels her heart in her throat and forces herself not to give in. She’s spent the past months sleeping with Raiders coming in and out of her bedroom at all hours. Being afraid of one monster, one man, isn’t something she will do. Besides she doesn’t have to be afraid since the weight of the amulet is heavy against her breastbone. Squirrel yawns and she hears him mumble something. She knows where he’s pointed.

“You didn’t tell me anyone else was in here.”

“She wasn’t when we came—“ she hears him being quieted.

She doesn’t know what possesses her to roll away and pull the blankets over her head. He’s been here the entire night. Maybe it’s the idea that he seems like the type who would hold off killing to make a spectacle. She hears the curtain pull back just slightly. She knows he’s looking at her. But only for a moment, then he lets the curtain fall back. She knows he’s aware she’s awake, he’d have to be a fool not to be, but he mentions nothing. He gives her some measure of privacy. Not that such a thing makes him good or anything. It just means he hasn’t put an arrow or a blade through her breast.

“Pym!”

Squirrel has no such manners.

But he’s also not a murderer so she has far less of a problem with him throwing himself through the curtain to jump on her. She catches a glimpse of the tent’s third occupant before the curtain closes and she’s able to focus on the boy on her sleeping roll. He doesn’t seem surprised she’s awake or maybe he just can’t tell. After everything she’s still surprised Squirrel has managed to remain somewhat himself. She feels as though everything in her has been scooped out. There’s no amulet to fix that.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning to you too,” she replies, “were you going to tell me there was a man in our tent or where you going to let me find him on my own?” She pulls back the curtain to see him with his back to them, “I’ll be out to look at your back in a moment.”

“He needed to be somewhere safe. You said sleep was important,” she glare at having her own words thrown back at her, “besides not everyone here is like us.”

Us.

It’s a repulsive word to be said in connection with the man that brought them to this situation. She doesn’t want to have any fellowship with him. But she knows that it’s not up to her. He’s Fey. She can hate him all she wants but slitting his throat in the middle of the night will make her no better than the humans. No better than the Paladins. And even in her anger she knows that is something she doesn’t want. She quickly plaits her hair and gets up, rolling away her bedroll. She has one possession that hangs around her neck. But the idea of him seeing anything more about her isn’t one she’s comfortable with. She’s brave, not stupid. She’s already dressed and only takes a moment to make sure everything is where it should be before she moves past the curtain. His back is still towards her, she wishes that he wasn’t dressed so she could look without having to meet his eyes.

“There’s no room here, let’s go out there,” she says.

He slips out the back of the tent without a word. Pym gets the feeling this is going to be a frustratingly long day. At the very least the raiders had a cure for that, but she has to get the Red Spear alone long enough to ask. She wishes Dof were here. Not just for the liquor but for everything else as well. She wishes so many people were here, sometimes it’s a struggle to focus on the ones who are. She doesn’t just want to add to the list and not appreciate the living. She picks up the pail of water and comes around the back to where the monk is waiting.

“I can’t see through your cloak,” she says.

He takes it off. She’s surprised to see his face is red. She gets the impression that she wasn’t the only one not aware of other people in the tent last night. He’s a monk, she reminds herself. Monks take vows. Apparently murdering heathens is preferable to spending time with women. The irony is not lost on her. They’ve both kept their clothes on, she doesn’t know why he would be flustered at it. And she doesn’t think for a second that him being flustered means he isn’t dangerous. That there isn’t enough of her—of their kind’s blood on his hands to fill a river.

“Is this the first time you’ve spent the night with a woman?” She asks. Evidently he’s not embarrassed enough to shut down any route of conversation.

“I didn’t know there was someone else in there,” he says finally.

“Would that have stopped you?”

He gives her a hard look but she doesn’t waver. His eyes move across her features and she thinks he might be judging if she expects an answer. Her time with the raiders has taught her not to ask stupid or rhetorical questions. No matter how terrifying the person she’s speaking to may be. He doesn’t seem to have an answer. She breaks looking at him to inspect at his injuries. They’re healing fast. Even the one she sewed together at his hip. She’s not egotistical enough to think that it’s her handiwork that’s doing it.

“Have you healed yourself again or this still from yesterday?”

“From yesterday,” he says. She looks up to see he’s still closed off, but the warmth on his cheeks hasn’t faded.

“Are you embarrassed to heal yourself?” She asks, sitting back on her heels, “I need to take the stitches out before you heal over them,” she says, grabbing the small hooked blade, “why are you embarrassed about something useful? You didn’t seem terribly embarrassed about your tracking abilities. Or your murdering ones.”

“Those aren’t Fey.”

“You’re a Fey, isn’t everything you do Fey? Hold still.”

His weight shifts and he balances immediately. She braces her hand against his skin and slips through the first knot, pulling the thread through. Blood wells up in its wake, but the wound doesn’t open. She wants to be away from him, but she wants to honor her people. Their people. So she focuses on doing a good job. Maybe her ego is a bit stung from Arthur’s exchange earlier. She knows she’s not the best healer, but she does a decent job. She can be better. But she is always learning. She wipes the blood off his skin and stands up, motioning him down to look at his face.

“The tracking was different.”

“How so?”

“It was useful to the Church’s mission.”

“The mission to wipe out your own people?”

His eyes flick towards her and she meets them. If he wants her to be afraid he’ll have to take her back in time. That doesn’t seem to be one of his skills. She’s never seen one of his Folk. If she considers it, they were probably wiped out at well. The idea that she is one of the last Sky Folk sends ice through her veins. So many good and brave people dead, why she should outlive them is baffling. The monk moves his head and jerks her back to the present.

“Hold still,” she orders.

He does.

She focuses back on her work and ignores the thoughts that swirl in her head about herself. Fortunately his back gives her something else to focus on. The lines that hatch mark his back are puffy and an angry red. She touches the wet cloth to one and he goes back to being still and taut, which she is beginning to think is his way of expressing pain. She replaces the rag with the back of her fingertips. The skin is hot too.

“When’s the last time you healed yourself like that?” She asks, “was it since the first time you got these?”

“No.”

“You’re going to have to do it again,” she says, “some of these are infected.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he says, going for his garments.

“No you won’t,” she tells him.

He turns and gives her a look that makes her blood run cold. That’s the look that her kind see before they die. Before they are murdered by one of their own. It terrifies her. She tells herself the weight against her breast makes her brave, she can be terrified and rest assured she will be fine. She can be scared and alright. How many battles did the amulet see Dof through? She can survive a staring contest with this man. She can survive if he does worse. She looks around to see if Squirrel is nearby. She can’t see him, but she knows he is. So she forces her feet closer.

“You need to heal yourself because you’ve taken enough from Percival,” she says.

Emotions flash across her patients features but she holds firm. She’s gotten raiders to lay still while she’s pulled arrows out of them and snapped noses back into place. She can get this monk, this man, to put his hands in some earth and keep Squirrel from being hurt again. She raises her chin, even though she feels like cowering, and meets his gaze. Nothing about him softens, if anything he looks even more frustrated. Pym doubts he looked at his Paladin friends that way, so his issue is either that she’s a Fey or a woman. But they both know that she’s right. He bends down and picks up the bucket, tossing it’s contents aside.

“Hey!” She protests and he holds the bucket out to her.

“I need you to put earth in there,” he says.

“Why?” The frustrated look doesn’t go from his face, “can’t you control it?”

“No.”

Of course he can’t, she doesn’t know why she’s surprised. But she bends down all the same and scoops earth into the bucket. She stands up and looks at him. He gives her a hard look but she doesn’t budge.

“I’m not looking away, if you can’t control it I can at least observe how it works,” he doesn’t move, “I’ve already seen at least one of your other powers,” she points out.

He sighs and puts his hands on the dirt. Green spreads across his skin and arms and wraps around his back. It’s like the forest is embracing him. When it dissipates, his back is whole and the skin is pink and new. She touches the same raised mark and finds aside from some rapidly disappearing warmth, it’s like it was never broken. She looks back into the bucket. What was wet earth is down dry and pale. She picks it up between her fingers and rubs them together, looking at the fine residue in their wake.  
“What happens if the earth isn’t contained?” She asks. He looks down, bracing his hands against his thighs. The white ash stains them too, “you don’t know, do you?” He stands up, “aren’t you curious?”

“No,” he says and takes the bucket, depositing the ash in the wet dirt and mixing the two with his foot until it’s just another wet spot in the forest. He turns and hands her the bucket, “here.”

Her arms lock around the bucket. He pulls on his garments and gives her another look, though the glare has lost it’s murderous intent. He pulls his hood up even though now they all know his face. Not that it matters. He’s managed to track them so far.

“Where are you going?” She asks.

“Where am I supposed to be?” He retorts.

“How should I know?” She sputters and realizes that it may have been a question. She’s not a leader, she’s not someone who is supposed to be the last of her kind. But none of that is up to her. And everyone has more important things to do. “Here. Fill it,” she says, trying to inject the firmness into her voice that she’s only just learning, “don’t let anyone see you. Then wait in the tent.”

She expects him to mouth off.

Instead he takes the bucket and slips into the woods.

She realizes he wasn’t the mouthing off type. She’s brave, the amulet makes her brave. She repeats it to herself as she leans against the tree and tries to get her trembling under control. It feels as though she has run for miles, though she’s barely moved three feet. This entire thing has felt like she’s run and never stopped, like if she keeps going fast enough then nothing can catch her.

“They’re asking for a healer,” someone says over her shoulder.

She’s better than no healer at all.

She picks up her bag and goes to close the top when she realizes what’s missing. The knife. Panic and anger churn in her gut, though the logical side of her wonders what one slim knife can do. Then a voice reminds her of the ash and she doesn’t think that having no weapon would save them anyway, if that’s what he decides to do.

“Miss?”

“I’m coming,” she says, closing the top of her bag and deciding she’ll deal with the monk later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup this got very tropey. Whoops? I'm kind of not sorry though.
> 
> Feel free to yell about any of this on[tumblr](https://planetsam.tumblr.com) with me. And as always I am highly susceptible to praise/feedback/love.


	4. Ash: Part 4

The knife is less than ideal, but it does make him feel better.

It’s a short, curved blade but he can do enough with it. It’s a blade. Those are always better than the makeshift weapons he’s been hyperaware of since he realized he left his swords back at the camp. He knows it was foolish to take it, but surely it was no more foolish than showing his abilities. The entire morning has been one embarrassment after another. Too many quiet moments, that’s how the Beast comes in. He wishes he could go down and help in the fight, even if no-one trusts him. Maybe especially if no-one trusts him. It’s not like anyone ever has, but Father’s words were always enough to make them keep that at bay. There’s no Father here to protect him.

“Lancelot, wait up!”

He does not hurt children. He also does not associate with them. Even the healer girl seems to know when to be passingly afraid of him. Squirrel seems to have forgotten. Some part of him wants to remind him. Even as he clasps a hand over his shoulder to prevent the boy from going face first into yet another thing that will break his nose. He told the knight he didn’t hurt the little ones, the knight told him that was a lie. He doesn’t know if the boy is an exception or proof or a test to see if he meant what he said. He drops his hand and looks at him.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m getting more water,” he says.

It’s been a very long time since he’s had to explain anything. Much less something so mundane. Orders are given and he is expected to deliver, everything in between is just people either falling under his weapon or giving him a wide berth to do his job. Squirrel is full of questions, so many that he thinks he wasn’t asked any so they could all pile up and be spit out by one boy.

“I’ll come with you. How’s your back? Did Pym fix it? She’s becoming a good healer which is funny because she was never very good at it. Except the sewing bit, she’s always been good at that.”

Squirrel looks at him, he doesn’t know which part of that was a question and which part is something he expects an answer for. He hasn’t had to hold up his end of a conversation in a very long time. Not like this, not when things are so damn quiet. It may be the longest he’s gone without someone attempting to kill him. He always thought if the day came when he was actually accepted and people wished to speak to him as he saw them do around the fires, he would be dead or feeling His Grace or both. Not walking in the woods with a Fey with no intent to harm him. He doesn’t feel Grace in this place. And the relief he feels at not being surrounded by those who do makes him feel weak and ashamed. Makes him feel more like he did when he was Squirrel’s age.

“If they see us together you’ll be in trouble,” he says. Squirrel shrugs, “you’ll be ostracized.”

“People used to tell me that about being friends with Nimue too,” he says.

It’s a simple and logical answer, befitting a far too brave boy. It’s also a foreign thing to be directed towards him. The past several Fey he’s encountered have been all the things that his Brothers claimed to be. It’s not something he enjoys, it’s not a comparison he wants to make. He wants the world to make sense again. He wants to have a purpose. He’s an unused blade, something left to collect dust in one dungeon or another. The damn itch has moved from his back to his palms. His fingers keep moving towards a comforting weight that is no longer there.

“You should listen to them,” he says.

“No thanks,” Squirrel says.

He exhales through his nose and they continue towards the creek.

“Does your horse have a name?” Squirrel asks.

“Goliath”

“That's good, he’s a good horse,” he says, “I made sure he got fed with the others. He’s probably worried about you.”

“He’s a horse.”

“But he’s your horse—“ Squirrel stops as he turns abruptly.

“I don’t care,” he says.

He doesn’t care about the horse. It’s a tool, like his blades. Like everything else. It was given to him by his Father to do his job. It’s effectively stolen. The mount is a good one, he’s not surprised that even injured and with closer horses he went for the one he had been riding. But Squirrel is putting too much emphasis on the unseen bond. He’s used to companions trying to pick apart his bonds or put their assumptions on him, he’s just learned that it’s better for them not to know. Better to have no bonds, but even he cannot claim that. He doesn’t like the boy looking for further evidence of his humanity, he already feels exposed by what he’s shown him. For now things are quiet, but it’s only a matter of time before it’s used against him in one way or another. Squirrel meets his eyes defiantly, he doesn’t bother to look for emotion on his face. It seems like he already knows it’s there.

“Yes you do,” he says.

“Go back to the tent.”

“But you said I could come with you!”

“I didn’t, you followed me.”

He waits for Squirrel to turn and run but the boy doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why he thought for a moment that he might. He thinks maybe telling the boy to come with him would get him to go back, but he doesn’t dare try. With his current run of luck Squirrel will probably take that as his consent and follow him everywhere. He’s been taught to let go of earthly needs and desires, but of the few needs he still has, a boy for a shadow is not one of them. He turns away from him and continues, not surprised when Squirrel scurries after him.

“So you can heal and you can sniff us out, what else can you do?”

It’s an innocent, annoying question. Asking his name is arguably a more dangerous one. It’s a question he’s been asked before in a jeering sort of way. The last time anyone asked and expected an answer, he was a boy. A scared child. Being around Squirrel opens the pathway to that time, to when he was that boy. It makes him think of Brother Salt, of the chair, of the questions. Of the secrets he’s managed to push so far into his mind that not telling them isn’t lying at all.

“Nothing,” he says.

“I don’t believe you,” Squirrel tells him, “you don’t have to tell me, I was just curious. You don’t seem to like to talk about anything,” he looks at him, “I saw the Paladins talking to each other.”

“I’ve been busy,” he says finally.

“Do you talk to your horse?” He keeps walking. For once Squirrel seems to understand what he’s saying. Or not saying. “Gawain used to talk to his horse. All the time,” he looks sad for a moment, “he cried after his horse died.”

Of course he did, that doesn’t surprise him. Gawain seems like the type. If he thinks back he can remember that battle where the steed fell. Only Gawain didn’t cry, he got absolutely furious. A lot of Brothers fell that day at his hand. If he thinks about it, that was a turning point in Gawain’s reputation. He thought it was just him being fearless, he didn’t think it was grief over the loss of a steed.

“What was the horses name?” He asks finally.

“Gringolet,” Squirrel says.

They fill the bucket. Lifting it feels odd, he’s prepared for the sting of skin across his back. The absolution that is supposed to accompany it. But there’s just whole flesh. The absence of pain feels like another blasphemy, though he supposes at this point he should learn not to count. Counting was always pointless anyway. He was demon born and would be demon returned. He just thought it would be by death not by choosing another way. He returns to the tent and sets the bucket down. Only a moment later to be put upon by the red head.

“Perfect timing,” she sighs and puts her hands in the water to scrub the blood.

“What happened?” Squirrel asks and can’t quite keep the shock from his voice.

“Someone’s horse got injured,” she says.

He’s not sure why his heart jumps. He immediately puts the panic aside. The knight may have been right about some things, that doesn’t mean he was right about everything.

“Whose horse?” Squirrel asks.

“Does it matter?” She asks slowly, looking between them, “one of the Raiders.”

“Was it the horse we came in on?”

“I didn’t see you come in,” she says in that same tone.

“I’ll go check!”

He catches the boy before he can go charging into the battlefield and the red head steps in front of his way as well, still dripping. Her panic is matched only by a familiar kind of frustration. Apparently he’s not the only one whose dealt with Squirrel’s behavior. Squirrel looks at her like she’s the one he needs to convince.

“Lancelot and me rode in on a horse. I fed him. We just want to make sure he’s alright.”

“You’re not going there,” she says, “either of you,” she looks between them and wipes across her forehead, “what does he look like?”

“He’s wearing black leather and he’s tall and dark,” Sauirrel says.

She nods and gives them both a look before walking off. It doesn’t take long for her to return, leading the horse. He plods after her obediently, he’s a well trained animal. If it came to it, he can’t say that he regrets taking him over the swords. Impractical as that might be. She stops and puts the reins behind her back and holds out her hand. It doesn’t take much to know what she is asking for. It’s clever, even he can admit that. He drops the blade into her hand and takes the reins from her. The horse breathes out and then bends down, sniffing but disinterested. He’s not surprised, he trained him not to be afraid of fire.

“Thank you,” he says.

“It’s no fault of his that he’s your horse,” she retorts, returning to the bucket to clean herself back up, “I have to get back out there,” she looks between the two of them, “stay by the tent,” she says, tying her hair back and heading off.

It feels like a lifetime ago that he dragged himself onto the horse and fled, but it also feels as though no time has passed at all. It’s all a strange muddle. There’s a fight raging nearby as they try to find their way out, but he still takes the saddle and chanfron off and eases the bit from his mouth, letting him graze. He knows he won’t go far. He’s glad to see him safe.

He still wishes he had the knife though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone still enjoying this? I know I am but I also want to make sure I’m not completely messing up characterization. You can always come yell with me on my tumblr about these idiots. As always feedback is loved.


	5. Ash: Part 5

It’s late by the time she gets back.

Again.

Pym wonders if she’s even capable of sleep anymore. The kind of sleep that actually makes you feel better. She doubts it. It’s also not something she needs to worry about at the moment. She can settle for the kind of sleep that lets her recover enough to not be completely useless. She has Squirrel back. That small piece of home is enough to get her past most things. There’s subtle differences when she gets back to the tent. The horse has his own bucket for one. And he’s out of all his black leather, he looks like almost any horse. A shiver still goes through her as she remembers the past times she’s seen him. She pushes past it, she refuses to spend more time afraid.

The water in her bucket has been changed. She scrubs the mess from her hands and wipes her face clean. She knows she’ll need to bath soon but at the moment it’s an exhausting idea. Being exhausted and not able to sleep is a terrible feeling. One of many, it seems like they all fight for her attention. When the horse brushes closer to her, she jumps. For a moment it feels like she’s back watching everything burn. She remembers the feeling of being dragged away by the Paladins in their red cloaks. She hears movement behind her and and she whips around. She knows it’s him but she can’t stop the gasp that escapes her when he straightens up and looks at her from the confines of his hood.

“Don’t do that,” she says, resting her hand against the horse to steady herself before remembering whose horse she’s touching and snatching her hand back. He acknowledges her with the barest dip of his head moves away from the tent, “where are you going?”

“To find somewhere to sleep,” he says.

A part of her wants him to do that, preferably somewhere near the edge of a high cliff. But the idea of him somewhere out in the woods makes her skin crawl. She trusts Arthur and the Spear to protect them, he’s done it so far. But she’s seen the monk find them. If he’s in the tent, she can at least have an idea of where he is. The thoughts collide exhaustingly and Pym orders them all into silence.

“Wait,” she says. He stops, “you should sleep in the tent,” he turns, “Squirrel will wonder where you are.”

“Is the boy going to be your reasoning for everything?” He asks.

Fury flashes through her.

“Well you’ve murdered everyone else,” she snaps.

He stiffens and she immediately regrets the words. Not just because arguing with him in a darkened forest seems like a monumentally bad idea. But also because that is not what the dead would want her to do. Well the Raiders who have died would, they’d probably also want her to hit him. But her Folk wouldn’t. Not if they knew what he was. All Fey are brothers, even the lost ones and the ostracized ones. She’s even asked what a Fey would have to do to lose that bond and been told that there’s nothing. It’s been her argument for why Nimue should be treated better. Is there an exception for genocide? She can’t remember and she feels incapable of deciding. The thought that she could decide and there’s a good chance that she wouldn’t have anyone older to argue with makes her throat tighten. But that she can stop. He doesn’t need to see any more weakness from her.

“You should sleep in the tent,” she repeats. The look he gives her is questioning but she has an answer, “I don’t trust you running around the woods.”

“I’m unarmed,” he points out.

“I’m not that stupid,” she shoots back.

This entire time she’s been drawing bravery from the amulet, but she doesn’t know if it works on situations like this. He could easily break her neck. She doesn’t put it past him. Maybe what’s keeping her alive is the affection he has for Squirrel. If it is, she doesn’t know how to feel about that. Lies and affection seem to be the only thing keeping her heart going, at least while she fumbles through learning how to be a good healer or at least useful. She wishes it was something else. Like bravery or cleverness. Her entire life seems to be about wishes when it’s bearable. Funny, because she never used to be someone with their head in the clouds. She can dream all she likes but here and now she has a monk to deal with and a friend to save.

“Go back in the tent,” she says with more bravery than she feels. He hesitates all the same, “what difference does it make? Those sheets are not going to protect me if you change your mind.”

“I’m not a boy,” he says.

The surprised sound that escapes her is jarringly loud, even the horse jerks his head up. It’s just comical, really. He’s not the joking type so she can’t even say it’s that. Though surely it must be. But when she looks at him all she sees is seriousness on his face.

“Have you ever slept near a woman?” She asks.

He looks down. She wonders if that same blush from before is back. If the problem isn’t guilt or any logical thing but the notion that he’s breaking some stupid rule that his murder friends put in place.

“You can’t be serious,” she says, “you burned down my village, you killed my friends and you kidnapped me—but sleeping near a woman is where you draw the line?” She laughs, “I’ve been sleeping in a hammock with half dead Raiders coming in and out at all hours thanks to you. So you are doing me no favors protecting my honor or virginity or whatever you think you’re doing. And you—you have no right to call yourself honorable to me. You don’t have anything to protect. And you have slept near a woman because we Fey don’t think like your Paladins. Mothers comfort their sons, brothers and sisters keep each other close. I put that sheet up so that Squirrel wouldn’t have to see me scrubbing blood from my hands because of your stupid Paladins!”

She sucks in a breath, realizing it may be the first time she’s spoken so much since she fled. Maybe the first time since, well, ever. The words just tumble out of her mouth. He deserves them, she knows he does. He knows she does. He can take his qualms about her being a woman and put them wherever he’s kept the rest of his warped ideals. He doesn’t retort, he looks down a few times but his eyes always seem to come back up to hers. It’s quiet between them. He’s braced for something and she realizes that she is too. She’s not a fighter, not that way. Not the way he is. But she wants to fight him. She wants to hit him until he brings back everything and the world is right again. Pym has never hated someone before, now the list is impossibly long.

“I should check on Squirrel,” she says.

“He’s fine. Still asleep.”

“How can you—“ she shudders, “do you wait until they’re asleep?”

Frustration comes across his features.

“I can hear him snoring,” he says, “there’s nothing Fey about it.”

She rubs between her eyebrows, not sure if that makes it better or worse. If she calms the blood pounding in her ears, she can make out the sound he’s talking about. It isn’t hard or some kind of magic, it’s just the sound of a boy snoring. The adrenaline is receding and she can think more clearly. Shouting at a man in the middle of the woods after a day of healing is not somewhere she ever thought she would be.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” she says, “you deserve worse, but today has been—“ she waves it off. It’s not as bad as three raids ago, “I’m tired,” she says finally. He offers just as much of a reaction as he did to her other words. It’s a sharp change after the raiders near constant flirtations and overtures, “do you carry on a lot of conversations?”  
“No,” he says and she thinks she sees annoyance flit across his features.

“You’ve been traveling with Squirrel for days—weeks,” she says, “you can’t have been silent the whole time,” he gives her a look, “or did he not stop talking long enough for you to get a word in.”

He glances away but she can read what he’s saying well enough. She imagines neither of them is terribly good at holding up their end of a conversation. Squirrel talks over people and the man in front of her seems not to know how to get a word in at all. What an odd pair it seems they make. But she can also see how they would balance each other out. In more ways than she’s comfortable with, if she’s being honest. The man has killed so many people, she’s not the only one whose suffered at his hands. She’s glad she has something she can fall back on, even if it’s the way of her people.

“Go back in the tent,” she says, motioning towards it, “you can’t sleep out here anyway, the ground is wet and you don’t touch anything green because God forbid you kill that.”

“I don’t kill it,” he corrects.

“What do you do then?” She asks, “absorb it?” He says nothing, “you’re going to have to answer these questions one day. You may be our brother but you still killed a lot of people.”

“Is it obvious I don’t touch the forrest?” He asks.

She think it might be the most words he’s said at one time. She thinks for a moment and then shrugs.

“I don’t know. I’ve been with the raiders, so, I spent a lot of time trying to observe them. To fit in,” he nods slightly, “I’m still observing. But people will be looking at you—yes,” she finishes, “it’s obvious. If you notice it.”

If he wasn’t a holy man, she thinks he’d curse. Again it occurs to her that the holy men have a very odd set of priorities. The monk looks down at his hands and flexes his fingers, as though he’s considering something. But the next moment he looks up at her and inclines his head sharply, then he turns and slips back into the tent. She’s left outside with only the nameless horse and a lot more questions. She looks over at the only thing that seems to actually know the man in the tent. Of course it would be something incapable of giving up his secrets, she shouldn’t expect anything less.

“You should get some sleep too,” she tells the animal, running her hand along its side. The horse snorts softly.

Pym resolves to find Arthur in the morning, she needs to speak to an adult before she loses her mind or her ability to hold a conversation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed back is love, my tumblr is open for screaming.
> 
> Frank Miller and Thomas Wheeler have chosen to use the spelling Fey (short for Fey Folk), it is not a Netflix typo. I'm respecting their artistic choice for their made up magical creatures.


	6. Ash: Part 6

He hears Arthur coming.

Immediately he knows something is wrong, Arthur isn’t moving with a thought to stealth. He’s moving with speed, he’s running. His mind immediately flashes to the Paladins and he curses himself for losing the head start he had. It’s a foolish mistake and one he would not have made if he was alone. Then again, if he was alone he probably would not have been running at all. He rouses Squirrel who looks up at him blearily but without fear. It’s the absence of fear that shows him how much there used to be in the eyes of the children who he saw. It’s irrelevant now.

“Wake your friend,” he says and steps out to meet Arthur.

He takes in the fresh dirt, blood and ash on his face and clothes. He only manages to pause for a moment on the blade at his hip before he focuses on him. He’s used to people looking at him in various shades of hatred, often tempered by his usefulness. For a moment there’s a flash of true revulsion on Arthur’s face, which he can grudgingly admit he’s earned. But it’s gone the next moment as Pym and Squirrel step out.

“We need to leave,” he says, “the Paladins are here, we have to go before they box us in.”

“How do you know?” Squirrel questions.

“Because I saw someone in a bright red cloak on the hill top ride for the woods,” Arthur looks at him, “not the most subtle color.”

He had thought that when they moved the most logical thing would be to cut his throat so he couldn’t follow. It still is, but no-one seems to be thinking it as Pym grabs the nearest knot and gives it a sharp tug. The smell of Fey becomes sharper, sweeter as the magic drops and rolls the tent into something easier to carry. The green comes up the side of Pym’s neck and hands. It’s dark and tinged more blue than some of the Sky people, but that could be due to her coloring. He can practically see the blues of her veins. She picks up the bundle and her healer bag as the color recedes and looks at them.

“Are we going?” she says. They all turn to look at him. Pym move forward, picking up the horse’s saddle, “get the rest of it, I’ll help—“

He moves forward and takes the saddle from her. It takes only slightly longer to saddle the horse. The two of them have done it many times, but never as the ones who are running. It’s a feeling he doesn’t like, the horse doesn’t seem to care much either way. He straps the bundle down and looks at the pair of them.

“Do either of you know how to ride?”

“I do!” Squirrel says. He wonders if the boy means that or if he’s forgetting that he stayed on so long as he held him there.

“Come here,” he says. He cups his hands. Pym walks over and looks confused, but still puts her hand on the saddle, “put your foot in my hands,” he says. She puts one hand on his shoulder. The smell of her is all the more overpowering when she puts her hand on his shoulder. She shifts her weight and he pushes upwards, helping her swing her leg over the horse. He shortens the stirrups and Arthur comes around to do the other side, boosting Squirrel onto the horse in front of her, “just hold on,” he tells her.

“Is he good in the forest?” Arthur asks. He looks over at him and Arthur rolls his eyes, “forget I asked,” he moves past him to meet a Raider whose on horseback and leading two, “here,” he says, thrusting the reins at him. He hesitates, “are you coming with us or are you going back to them?”

He isn’t sure he should go with either of them for a moment. He’s good at hiding his emotions, or he thinks he has been. Instead Arthur pushes the reins into his hands. He’s killed Arthur’s friends and hurt him, but Arthur doesn’t strike him.

“Make up your mind when we aren’t running for our lives,” Arthur says.

He can live with that, he thinks. They’ll be moving for a while. Still plenty of time. He takes the reins from him and hauls himself onto the horse. For the first time it doesn’t hurt. Which is good because the mount feels vastly different. He’s momentarily annoyed, but if it’s at the change of mount or the fact that this is yet another unfamiliar thing in a long line of them is beyond him. Squirrel and Pym are looking at him warily and he knows that the hesitation wasn’t what they wanted to see. It’s Arthur who gives him a look of borderline understanding, even as the Red Spear gives the entire exchange one of disgust.

“Are we done talking about our manly feelings?” She demands, “some of us would like to live through this.”

“Coming, Milady,” Arthur says.

She rolls her eyes at him but doesn’t correct him.

“You,” she says, “you know how to evade them?”

His heart jumps at the prospect of being useful but Arthur clears his throat.

“We don’t need to evade them if we leave now,” Arthur says.

He knows the unspoken thing. Him helping isn’t an option, not yet. This is sickeningly familiar. He remembers being a young boy, hungry to prove he was more than a traitor and an orphan. Father kept his leash short, he made him wait until the time was right and there could be no question of his usefulness. But that waiting felt like it was driving him mad. Maybe it had. Though he knows the madness came before that. It came at the hands of the ones he served. He waited to serve them, now he realizes he has to wait to serve another.

“Stay in the forest,” Arthur says, “they don’t want to come through here without you. The longer we can keep them from seeing you, the better off we’ll be.”

He nods his understanding and looks over at his mount. The steed raises his head to look at him. He doesn’t know much in this strange morally grey world, but he knows the horse will follow him. So he presses into the flanks of the blonde and cream steed he’s riding. They don’t go deep into the forest, enough to give them cover but not enough for the horses to get hurt. His horse follows easily. This is not the most insane thing he’s asked of the animal. He glances back a few times to make sure the riders are still astride. But he doesn’t look back for long.

He’s so used to tracking prey that he can smell, it’s disorienting to not have that to fall back on.

He still manages to dodge the arrow though.

Forget the horse, he should have asked Arthur for a weapon. Instead he digs his heels into the sides of the mount he’s on. His own horse picks up pace in response. Pym’s sharp inhale tells him that there’s no need to be concerned about that. At least she’s smart enough not to scream. He has to open his senses to the Green to help him navigate, though it takes them deeper into the forest. It takes them away from the others. He pulls his horse up and focuses on the woods around them, using every sense he has to scan for his former Brothers. They are not subtle, but somehow they have both become crippled. If it’s a numbers game, he knows he’s outmatched.

He motions for silence and slips off the horse. It’s not as well trained, so he keeps the reins in his hand. It’s not as though he needs two in order to wield a weapon. He picks up a stone and looks for the clearest path through the trees. He throws it as hard as he can and hears it hit a good distance off. He listens for the sound of hooves or feet or arrows, but none come. He doesn’t trust they’re alone, but he trusts the Paladins haven’t found them yet. Waiting is not their forte. God shows the target and with his Grace they act. There’s no need to wait. He gets back on his mount and looks back at his two companions. Both are quiet and alert with their hoods up. For two Fey who have little horseback experience, neither looks as though they’re about to scream or fall off. He can be glad for small things that make life easier.

They push on into the thick of the woods. Eventually it becomes more difficult for the horses to navigate, especially the one that he’s riding. He dismounts. The next sound is surprisingly loud to his ears. He whips around just in time to see Pym land on the ground. Not injured, just awkward. He ignores the kick of adrenaline as she helps Squirrel down and nudges him forward, guiding the reins over the horses’ head. She has no problem following him, neither of them do. They form an odd sort of brigade. He leads them to where he knows the Brothers will not go, not without him. Not just to look on the off chance that they may find him.

“We’ll stop here,” he says.

“No, we need to get to the others,” Pym tells him, “they could be in trouble.”

“They would look for me over them,” he points out.

“So we should keep moving,” she says.

“Take the horse and go, I’ll point you where they are,” he says.

She looks at him quietly with that same fury in her eyes. If she starts to yell at him he’s going to have to silence her. It was a miracle that Squirrel stayed asleep, it’s not something he wants to test a second time.

“Can you track them?” Squirrel asks.

“Yes,” he says.

“For how long?”

“The trail is fresh,” he says. Squirrel gives him a look that he would ignore, except he needs them both to keep quiet, “A fortnight if it doesn’t rain,” he says finally, “it’s harder after that.”

He can pick it up for longer, but it gets harder. Usually though there are enough clues that he can find the starting point or the next step. With this there are a handful of them and they are all afraid. He doesn’t expect finding them to be very difficult. But he has no intention of being used. The Paladins know if they find him, they find the Fey. He’s lost that element of surprise since by now everyone knows that he left with the boy. It’s the first time they’d been so brazen with trying to find another of him, but he knows they had been looking. Subtly, carefully, but never actually finding another like him. Squirrel can’t sniff out other Fey, but he knows they would have tortured him to death to see it for themselves. He pushes the question of whether or not they have other boys in other camps out of his head. For now. There’s more pressing things to be concerned about.

“See? We’re fine,” Squirrel says, “you don’t have to be scared.”

When he glances at her, scared isn’t the word he’d use to describe Pym. Annoyed, angry, he’s sure if she could have kept the boy with her, she would have taken the horse and ran. Instead she glares and then looks around, as though looking for something. The horse doesn’t fight as she leads him to a willow. She looks back at them and motions them inside. It’s not the worst place to hide themselves. It takes her a moment to pull her fingers from the reins. When she does, she drops them to the ground and walks over to where the branches are. He watches as she runs her fingers through them. The air changes, the scent of her grows stronger as the vines creep up her flesh. The willow branches twist around themselves subtly. Not enough to change how they look, just enough that it’s not as simple to get in as walking through.

“It’s better than nothing,” she says, turning to face them, the vines on her skin slipping back.

“I said she was good at sewing,” Squirrel says, “hey, where are you going?”

“Stay here and keep quiet,” he says, trying to push away the frustration that it has to be said at all.

He steps out, the smell of Fey retreating slightly. He’s too attuned to it, he’s used to working on days old trails not standing next to one while they’re using their abilities. He’s used to pushing past all physical discomfort, but he needs his wits about him. It’s hard to have those when the smell is so overwhelming. He also needs to make sure he hasn’t turned them into sitting ducks. He walks back a ways but finds no evidence of the Paladins. He finds it strange that they didn’t come closer or pursue harder. The arrow that they fired means they want him dead, but they aren’t willing to do the deed. Not without him to lead them through.

He’s spent most of his life pushing aside the whisper that something is not right. With nothing to focus on, no orders to drive him, he forces himself to let the whisper past the walls he puts it behind. Something is wrong. Father wouldn’t let him go so easily. He’s surprised that Father wasn’t the one who shot the arrow, that he wasn’t there in the next breath. He’s old but that hasn’t stopped him from appearing out of the corner of his eye. When Father orders, everyone knows to obey. He’s used to being the enforcing hand, but he knows that Father was the power. Cutting off a hand doesn’t make one powerless. Not like this. He checks for any sign that there’s a trap being laid here but finds none. It feels as though they have given up in their pursuit of him through the woods.

It means nothing good.

He follows the lingering scent back to the hideout, taking care to let the branches brush against his cloak as he steps inside. There’s no need for the tent but Pym’s taken out the two bedrolls. The horses are gazing nearby. Neither of them have been foolish enough to start a fire. Everything is as good as it can be, under the circumstances. It’s foreign to come back to somewhere and not have the hushed conversation die out. He doesn’t remember the last time he approached a gathering, even of just two. He eases himself down. Squirrel hands him one of the rolls. He does it without thinking.

He glances over to see Pym watching. She’s older, she understands the significance behind breaking bread with other Folk. For all her annoyance, she doesn’t try to stop him. She reaches over and passes him the waterskin. It’s survival, he’s sure. But he’s gone longer without food and it hasn’t thrown him off his abilities. He doesn’t voice it though.

The three of them sit in their makeshift hideout and eat in silence as the sky turns dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cut off the hand, get it? Anyway feedback is love, come scream about cursed on my [tumblr](https://planetsam.tumblr.com) or my other one [tumblr](https://venomrps.tumblr.com) and as always let me know what you think!


	7. Ash: Part 7

She’s aware that he keeps looking at her.

Pym’s spent a lot of time ignoring the looks the Raiders gave her. She’s spent a lot of time ignoring the looks that people give her in general. But before it was usually because of the company she kept. It wasn’t like that. The Raiders looked at her like a fresh piece of meat. Like they were hungry for her. The Red Spear didn’t allow anything of that sort and she knows nothing would have happened. Her discomfort at their looks wasn’t as important as being away from the Paladins. It’s odd when she thinks about it, whenever she’s been at the end of those kinds of looks she’s always had someone to have her back. They don’t bother her as much when she has that.

Squirrel has her back, but he only comes midway up it. On the other hand their companion towers over both of them. The way he keeps looking at her is somewhere between the Raiders and her Folk. It’s disgust and curiosity all wrapped up in one. Like she’s repulsive and enticing at the same time. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She hasn’t changed her clothes in days, there shouldn’t be anything enticing about her. Certainly not for someone who had a problem being in the same tent as her while they were asleep. She knows he wouldn’t hurt Squirrel so she feels alright getting up when the boy is asleep and going over to where the horses are. They ignore her at least.

“You should try to sleep,” he says.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” She asks.

He looks surprised at her directness, but if every moment could be their last she refuses to go with things unsaid. She’s so tired of pushing everything aside to focus on surviving. It’s clear that her life will be about nothing else for the foreseeable future and she knows that shoving things down and aside isn’t helping. She watched Nimue do that with her emotions. She’s nothing compared to her friend, she knows that, but the principal is the same. So she fixes him with a look. He’s already broken bread with them, he doesn’t get to do that and stare at her that way. He doesn’t stop looking at her or fumble with some kind of nonsense. The look in his eyes doesn’t go away.

“You keep looking at me like I’m a piece of meat,” she says, “like you’re doing now. Why?”

“Using your powers makes the scent heightened,” he says. Heightened. Her throat tightens with some combination of anger and fear as she considers how many desperate Fey used their abilities to try and flee. How that made it easier for him to find them, “I didn’t realize,” he stops for a moment, “I’m sorry.”

She wants to tell him to save his apologies for someone else. But anyone else he could have apologized to is dead. She’s sure for as long as she lives, she’ll never understand how she’s the one still here. She may be the first or second person he’s ever apologized to. She’s not even sure he knows what it means or if she has any right to be upset at the way he’s looking at her. Immediately she kicks herself for the last bit. He’s not a Raider, he’s not her ticket to still having a pulse at the end of this. He’s done monstrous things and they have been thrown together by fate and poor choices. And Squirrel. She has every right to be upset at him staring at her like a piece of meat.

“You can’t do that,” she says. He looks confused, “you can’t look at them like that,” she elaborates, “I’ve been around Raiders, the others haven’t.”

“I wouldn’t—“ he begins.

“You burned down my village,” she cuts in, “I think we can agree your celibacy doesn’t make you better than them.”

He exhales sharply and she can tell he’s frustrated. She doesn’t know if he’s getting better at showing his emotions or if she’s getting better at reading them. Neither makes her feel good about the situation. She knows she’s right. Here, at long last, is something familiar. It’s like standing with Nimue again. But worse. Nimue couldn’t help who she was. What she could do. She tried again and again to rewrite herself but it never worked. Pym remembers her sadness and her frustration, her longing to fit in. But every attempt at what she could change was thwarted one way or another. Until there was no point in trying. His situation is so much worse. Nimue’s power was greater but it was stigma that did her in for everyone. His power is less and Pym isn’t sure it’ll be stigma if you did the things that he’s done. She watches his frustration and then like a veil thrown over his face, he looks up at her with a blank expression that’s almost more unnerving.

“That’s worse,” she says. It drop, thankfully. And isn’t replaced by the hungry look he’s been wearing. Just that frustration she sees when Squirrel asks too many questions. It doesn’t take a genius to know how stupid he thinks this is when he turns away. “You’re going to have to learn,” she tells him.

“We need to stay alive,” he says.

“That’s just an excuse,” she points out, “we’re alive right now. You don’t know how to act around Fey Folk,” he glowers at her, “you can’t glare every time someone says something you find stupid. No-one will want to talk to you.”

“That’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” she says, “the last time I escaped from your Brothers I got myself onto a boat and learned to be a healer. We’re hiding out in the woods,” he just looks at her, “if you talk to people, they’ll help you.”

That seems to make sense to him. At the very least the glare goes and he doesn’t look at her like she’s speaking drivel. She’s gotten through to him somehow. It might be the most magical thing she’s seen in days. It’s certainly the second most miraculous. Nothing will be more miraculous than Squirrel coming back. But getting through to the monk in front of her about something other than keeping all his blood inside him comes very close. She would say that it should be obvious, but she’s getting the sense that he truly has no idea how to navigate a world without his mission and his Paladins.

She wishes she didn’t understand that lost feeling so well.

It’s his fault she knows what it feels like at all. She refuses to entertain the idea of being sympathetic to the person who caused it. But she understands that feeling all the same. She’s lucky enough to have gotten to go back to what’s left of her home. She at least had the hope of return. She doesn’t know if he has that. Or what it would take to get his brothers to accept him again. She’s not sympathetic and some terrible part of her says that he deserves that and worse. But she refuses to dishonor her ways by stooping to that level.

“I don’t enjoy conversation,” he says finally.

“You were a Fey among Paladins, I can’t imagine they had a lot to say to you,” she points out. He presses his lips together but they both know she’s right.

“I was useful,” he says.

“I was useful to the Raiders,” she points out, “but they don’t hate the Fey like your Paladins,” she considers him for a moment, “which I guess I also have you to thank for.”

Anyone kind to the Fey does so because they have been wronged by the Paladins. She doesn’t like the notion of having any gratitude towards him, but she knows things aren’t that simple. And they will get more complicated the more time they spend together. Or that he spends with Squirrel. It’s all complicated but he hasn’t told her to be quiet or any of the practical things that she expects to come out of his mouth. She thinks about Dof and ignores the urge to turn away again. His look has softened slightly. It’s not kind but she’s no longer a piece of meat ready to be grilled.

“That’s a better look,” she says.

“Why are you helping me?” He asks.

“Fey Folk help each other,” she says. He gives her a questioning look that she’s tempted to ignore, “Squirrel likes you. I know what it’s like to be friends with someone that everyone else considers a monster. He deserves better.”

“You stood by her,” he says, “even after you learned what she was?”

  
“We were friends,” she says, “I didn’t like her just for her usefulness,” she looks at him carefully, “did you have friends? With the ones you left?”

“No.”

She wants to say that they didn’t seem like the friendship type but that’s not entirely true. They didn’t seem like the friendship with Fey type. He really was very useful to them. That much is very clear. She wishes she didn’t know what kind of usefulness it took for a Fey to not be killed by people charged by a god to do so. She looks at the horses who are calm and wonders how they can be that way at a time like this. She half expected his horse to sniff her out like he did. Though she knows that’s a stupid thought since a horse is just a horse.

“Did you use your knots to escape?”

Under any other circumstances, she thinks she’d laugh at the awkward overture. Given the current ones, she turns around and looks at him. It’s truly mind boggling that a man who can burned down villages and track by scent will also go pink in the cheeks when faced with the prospect of an uncomfortable, non-violent interaction with a woman. Pym isn’t sure what she believes in these days, but she has trouble believing that any god who would create those kind of skewed priorities is real. It’s probably just a bunch of old men sitting around and doing whatever they want. Her instinct is to tell him that she doesn’t want to talk about escaping, but he’s already seen her do it, so she supposes it’s not important now.

“Yes,” she says, “I was too far away to untie anyone else without them seeing.”

He gives the barest nod of acknowledgement and she tries to shove the memory from her mind. She doesn’t want to think about it. About sitting there, about untying herself, about the slight shake from the other Fey who were almost within her grasp. She had no choice, she knows that, she doesn’t even really remember dropping and fleeing. But she knows that the memory is horrible and guilt laced. It’s not one she can allow to cripple her, not while she’s away from anything safe.

“Does your horse have a name?”

He looks so surprised at the question it’s almost comical. She wants to ask any number of cruel questions about his family, his home, anything to make him hurt. But then she would be no better. Asking cruel questions doesn’t make her worse, not by a long shot, but it makes her someone she doesn’t want to be.

“Goliath,” he says finally.

“Did you name him that?” He nods, “why?”

“He was small,” he says, “Goliath was a giant.”

She has trouble thinking about him with a small foal. But she’s aware that he’s probably spent a lifetime with people’s cast offs and second choices. She runs her hand along the horse. His master may be terrible at anything nonviolent but she gets an ear flick out of him and he raises his head to inspect her, butting her hand with his nose before returning to grazing. It’s the most civil and pleasant interaction she’s had with anyone in days, all things considered. But maybe that’s what happens after you ride someone.

“Lancelot and Goliath,” she says aloud.

“The story was David and Goliath,” he tells her.

She is starting to get the feeling that Lancelot ruins conversations just by opening his mouth. It’s like watching a young one try to walk. One step forward and then they are on the ground in a tangle of limbs and sobs. Getting to that second step without someone to hold you up is never easy.

“So what happens in the story?” He gives her a questioning look.

“It’s from the Bible,” he says, almost like a warning.

With more bravado than she feels, she shrugs. She doesn’t want to hear stories from a hateful book that could justify the slaughter of everyone she’s known and loved—justify her own slaughter. But if he’s not good at conversing, perhaps he has some talent for telling a story.

“Tell it to me,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS I didn't realize that his horse had a name. I fixed it in the previous chapter where he says it didn't, so you're not imagining the change. In his internal dialogue I don't think Lancelot has connections (yet). Squirrel gets referred to by a name the most but no-one else does (yet).
> 
> For the healing powers I somewhat came up with those, but also during the fight with Gwain he gets sliced on the forearms and drops his weapons, then he touches the ground and can pick them up again. So I think there's some healing. It ties into the other powers I have made up/seen hints of which are coming into play very soon.
> 
> Anyway here we go again with me reminding you I function on praise/comments/kudos/constructive criticism. All that good stuff. I hope everyone's still on board as we go forward, I'm trying not to rush it but keep things interesting.


	8. Ash: Part 8

“Why are you talking so much? Aren’t we supposed to be hiding?”

He glances over at Squirrel who gives him a look that’s part questioning and part judgement. Given the fact that words don’t seem to stop spilling out of Squirrel’s mouth, he wonders how he can say anyone is talking too much. He does realize there’s an itch in his throat though, he knows he’s been using his voice more. He hates to admit that the healer has a point. A few words with Gwain had gotten him more information and clarity than years of silence. Father, even the boy, all of that had changed by a simple exchange of words. If he thinks back, farther back than he ever likes to, it was a few simple words that saved his life.

“Yes,” he says.

“Yes to what?”

“He needs the practice,” Pym says.

“What are you practicing for?”

“Enough,” he cuts in. Mercifully Squirrel clamps his mouth shut. But the fear that usually follows the order doesn’t appear on his face. The boy looks over at the healer for an explanation. She glances at him and he cannot take this awkward exchange for another moment, “I’m checking on the horses,” he says. 

“You’re talking a lot again,” Squirrel points out as he gets up to go over to more silent company.

He hears the two of them talking in a low tone but he doesn’t pay attention for what they’re saying, only the volume of their voices. They can’t stay here much longer, but he needs to have a direction for where they are going. The horse raises his head and looks at him as he walks by and looks out at the forest. It’s quiet still. The daylight dapples the ground but there’s so much greenery it doesn’t make it through. Between that and the quiet and the position of being hunted or hated on all sides, he feels the beginnings of panic. He refuses to give into it. He’s covered, he’s good enough that there is little chance of him accidentally touching anything. And he has enough bumps and bruises to buy him time if he does, even if his hairshirt is gone and the marks on his back have been healed.

He knows what he needs to do, though he’s loathed to ask.

He walks back over to where the two of them are sitting and ignores the sharp, questioning look that the boy gives him.

“I need the knife.”

She looks around as though hoping that someone will be there. Whether it’s to deny him or to give her guidance, he doesn’t know. But no-one is there. It’s the three of them and the choice is hers alone. He can work with no weapons, the knife probably won’t even do much against a group of heavily armed brothers. But a knife is better than no blade at all. He sees Squirrel open his mouth and he fixes the boy with a look, giving him a slight shake of his head. Squirrel looks disappointed and he wonders what the boy would do if he asked. He’s not sure he wants to find out. Instead he focuses back on her. He half expects her to say no and though he knows there’s any number of ways he could take the blade, he knows that them working together is in his best interest. She gets to her feet and walks over to her bedroll, pulling it back and pulling out a pulling out a roll of cloth. She wipes the dirt off and hands it to him.

“Here,” she says, “there’s more options in there, something might make more sense.”

He opens it.

She’s right.

There’s several small knives, a few hooked ones and a few bigger ones. They’re a cobbled together set, none of the uniformity that the Church stresses. They’re well worn around the handles but cared for. The blades are good. Not good enough to save the life of whoever had them first, but good enough for what he needs. The serrated one he can think of several uses for, but it won’t be terribly good in combat. He picks two roughly the same size that he can use and a few of the smaller ones. He takes the hooked one for good measure. He leaves the rest for her and she bundles it up. Nothing else from her healer bag is out, he can appreciate her practicality.

“Wish we’d thought to pick up your swords,” Squirrel says.

He hasn’t wished for anything so badly since he was much younger and far more foolish. But he learned to fight without a sword first, perhaps there’s justice in his rebirth coming with a blade as well. He doesn’t know if he’s earned such a thing. It doesn’t matter at the moment anyway. He’s got more important things that need attending to. Like getting them all out safely. With any luck he’ll be able to get them past his Brothers and back with the main group. Where he goes from there is yet to be seen. He doesn’t want anything to happen to either of the Fey sitting near him, but even he knows that bringing them back alive and well will count in his favor. Moreso than any conversation will anyway.

“How are you going to pick up the trail?” Pym asks.

“I marked the route when I looked yesterday,” he says.

“Pinch your nose,” Pym advises him and walks over to the branches, passing her hand over them.

He ignores her advice. Fey use this easily, he’ll need to learn not to seem like he’s about to hunt them if he has any hope of acclimatizing. It’s still hard not to when her smell gets stronger as the vines spread across her skin. The willow’s shift is imperceptible but when the branches hang loose, he knows it’s time to go. He hands her the horse’s reins. He’s the easier mount to lead. He takes the other and they depart the tree. They’re all silent as he leads them near to where the trail started. It’s almost laughably easy to pick up again. But the forest is lighter. They’re more exposed. The hole in the tree where the arrow was is a reminder of what they’re up against. His gut tells him there’s no way that they just cleared the area and moved on.

He moves them away from the trail. The forest isn’t as thick as he wishes, but it’s thicker than where the group rode through. Traveling with companions isn’t new to him, but it’s different from traveling with the Brothers. They had all agreed to die for the same cause. Believed in the same thing. Forfeited their lives to God. The Fey he’s traveling with don’t believe in his God, they would like to not die. It’s a sharp and uncomfortable distinction. He moves them along the trail with a jerk of his head. He chooses speed over looking over his shoulder to make sure they are alright. His mount knows to watch his back. Of everyone, he trusts him the most. It’s a small reliability. The horse he’s leading on the other hand, he has no idea of whether or not it will be good in a fight.

It doesn’t take long to find out.

He sees the flash of red a moment before his steed rips himself free of Pym and closes the distance. That spooks the pale horse he’s holding. It’s utter chaos. He’s not sure if that was Goliath’s intention but it certainly helps. The Paladins are not expecting it. He dispatches the two he sees with bows with the smaller blades, sending their horses into the chaos. He counts three without range weapons, who charge at him simultaneously. Like they’ve been taught. He’s probably been involved somehow since they all look concerned. That doesn’t buy them anything except a quick death. The knives are good and sharp, but he only uses them for the first Brother. All their blades are uniform and interchangeable. Taking his and cutting down the other two is easy. He waits for shouts of horror or cries of additional members, but it’s not surprising they left a small party to wait for him.

The rest of the horses are gone but Goliath has herded the blonde one back to them. He quickly takes the weapons from the bodies and retrieves the knives. Only then does he look around for his companions. Pym drops down from the tree and Squirrel follows. It’s a clever hiding place. Neither looks particularly horrified at his actions. He doesn’t know if that’s hatred of the Brotherhood, what they’ve since since their village burned or something else.

“I can shoot,” Squirrel whispers to him. He glances at Pym and then shakes his head, “come on—“

“Quiet.”

Squirrel shuts up.

He distributes the extra weapons between the horses. Being armed makes him feel better, though he knows not to let his guard down just because of that. Feeling better is relative, he knows that the horses he sent ahead will warn them of their arrival. They either have to be faster or they have to be unpredictable and he’s not willing to lose the chance to go into the next fight armed. Unpredictable will have to do. He moves them down the trail, listening for the sound of the horses or his Brothers. He hears neither. They had a good head start but it becomes clear that isn’t what is going on. Not when the gouge of frantic hoof prints eases but the forest remains dead quiet. They’re too far in to get out of whatever trap has been laid for them. Their only option is forward now. He turns back to Pym and Squirrel and Goliath.

“Get on,” he says, cupping his hands into a step so Pym can swing herself into the saddle.

He lifts Squirrel on as well. If nothing else Goliath will keep them safe. He still motions for silence from both of them. He doesn’t mount his own steed. He needs the Brothers to think he’s the easier target, without letting them know that he’s aware of what they’re doing. He can think of several formations they’ve been trained in, but without him navigating he knows their placement will be less than ideal. He plans to use that to his advantage. He just needs one or all of them to get overzealous and reveal where they are. He sees the freshly turned over leaves and wonders if they think he’s stupid enough to fall for that trap or if they’re trying to make him so egotistical he makes a simple mistake. His ears pick up the sound of something in the trees. But it’s not red he sees. It’s black.

He should have known the Trinity Guard would be there.

The arrows come from all sides. He hears Goliath thunder off as the horse he’s holding whinnies in alarm or pain or some combination of the two. He swings himself into the saddle and ignores the fire that stings his arm as the arrow cuts him. Another finds it’s way into his shoulder blade. Neither matter as he gets the horse to move. They don’t fear him like his Brothers, though he wishes sorely that they did. They also aren’t as easy to lose or easy to spot. He’s struck them down before and he plans to do it again, but at the moment all he can do is run as they coordinate their strikes. The trap is well done, he can admit that much. They’ve staggered themselves so his attempts at flight are blocked by a hail of arrows. They’re boxed in. Goliath hasn’t gotten much farther, though he’s dodged the arrows better. Their small window when the archers reload is too small to make a break for it. They’re on borrowed time.

There’s nothing else to do.

He shoves aside everything that tells him not to, they’re past that now. He’s already hunted, already surrounded on all sides. No-one can protect him. Not from the Church. When he goes for the tree, another arrow hits him but that doesn’t matter. He ignores the pain and the sound that Pym can’t quite contain. He dismounts and whether he drops from the arrows or the knowledge of what he needs to do, he can’t say. Just that his knees hit the earth and he falls forward onto his hands.

It’s not healing.

Not really.

It’s connecting to the energy, it’s agitating it, it’s drawing on it. Until it’s a cascade. His injuries heal but he doesn’t move his hands. He continues to connect and draw and change. The green that goes up his arms and across his body connects him to the living energy. He’s not sure when the turning point is, he doesn’t remember or maybe he’s never learned. But he keeps the connection past the point he’s always cut it off at.

It takes only a few heartbeats past that before the green fire rips up the tree.

It spreads to all of the trees, the wood cracking in it’s wake. It’s so hot it takes a moment until the smoke starts. Like the wound he’s created is so deep it takes a moment to start to bleed. But once the bleeding starts it’s impossible to stop. He’s certain most of them have died in the blaze or when the trees erupted, the green fire has never cared about sparing a life. They’re all human so it takes a moment to smell the burning flesh over the smell of burning wood. He rips his hands free of the roots. The arrows throw him off balance but he ignores them to pick up Pym and Squirrel’s scent. He’s tried to train Goliath for this, but it seems that the training wasn’t terribly effective or Pym rightfully spurred him on. He tracks them easily, though it takes longer than he wishes to get past the smoke. The trail wraps around a thick tree and he rounds it, nearly meeting the end of the sword Pym is holding like her life depends on it.

He wouldn’t blame her for not lowering it.

He’s relieved when she does.

“You have arrows in your back,” she says and her voice is oddly controlled. He nods. He looks around her to see Squirrel who has his eyes shut and his ears plugged, “it’s alright,” she says, raising her voice. He opens his eyes.

“You’re hurt,” Squirrel says.

“She’ll get the arrows out,” he says.

“How come you didn’t—ow!” He looks over at Pym.

“Now’s not the time,” she says, “I don’t want to know what’s coming next,” she undoes the knot she’s made in Goliath’s reins, “we need to get out of here.”

“When’s the time?” Squirrel asks.

“Later,” he says, even though some long forgotten voice tells him to shut up. That no-one outside of their Folk is to know about what he just did, “we’ll talk later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaaaa that is the power I was building to. It's too much set up with the Ash people and him turning green and Fey Fire being green--plus he can smell Fey which probably comes in hand when you're trying to find your mom in a cloud of smoke. We'll go more in depth next chapter.
> 
> So I actually missed the part in the show where the Weeping Monk talked to his horse. Which is unfortunate because I had a whole thing I was building to where he named his horse in honor of Gwaine's horse, but I also love the idea that he's going around naming his horse Goliath and I wanted to honor that.
> 
> Anyway feedback is love, you can come scream with me on my Tumblrs and I hope you're all excited for the next bit. Let me know!


	9. Ash: Part 9

It seems like a lifetime ago she was trying to pull arrows out of a squirming Raider.

Lancelot doesn’t squirm. But the arrows have been healed into him. It’s not as easy as pulling them out, if pulling them out could be described as easy. She’s got no choice but to cut around them to get them out. She at least has Squirrel move where he can’t see. She almost asks if Lancelot wants something to bite down on but then she looks at the back of his head with the healed over cross cut into his skin and sets to work.

“Can you do anything else?” Squirrel asks.

“Squirrel,” she cuts in, “that’s not—“

“No,” he cuts her off. She glares at the back of his head before resuming his work, “you’ve seen it all.”

“How does it work?”

“Percival,” she cuts in. Both of them turn to look at her. She flattens her hand to stop Lancelot from turning more and ignores Squirrel’s eyeball at his real name, “asking Folk what they can do when they aren’t part of your Clan is rude,” she explains, “it’s not something we ask one another lightly.”

“That’s a dumb rule,” Squirrel says.

“You’ve seen me do it,” Lancelot points out.

“I have a knife in your back,” Pym says because she has to say something if she’s going to be dealing with Squirrel who doesn’t care about rules and Lancelot who seems to be constantly breaking them, “stop twisting.”

He stiffens which makes it easier to work the knife around the arrow at least. She steadies her hand against his shoulder, judges the angle and pulls. She’s not stupid enough to think she’s gotten so much better it doesn’t hurt, but the soft grunt he gives is a far cry from the wails and swears she’s used to getting. She tosses the arrow aside and turns to the one higher up on his shoulder, letting the lower one bleed for the moment. This one is at a slightly different angle, it takes a deeper cut and more effort to pull out. She doesn’t even have to tell him to put his hands in the earth this time. It turns to ash quickly as he uses his powers to heal himself. It’s only when he pulls his hands out that she realizes she’s been holding her breath the entire time.

“How does that turn into Fey Fire?” Squirrel asks.

It’s a rude question but she’s glad he does.

He gets to his feet silently and walks a few paces away to a patch of weeds. Irrationally she wants to call him back, even as the rest of her watches with interest as he presses his hand to it. One moment there’s nothing and the next it’s covered in a bright green fire. Squirrel sidesteps her when she tries to drag him back and runs over to where Lancelot is crouched with his hand in the flame. She approaches carefully. It’s hot, is the first thing she’s aware of, the kind of hot that makes it difficult to breathe. It’s hard to look at as well. The longer it burns the more green it gets, but it makes her eyes water to look at it. Squirrel seems to be having the same reaction. Both of them have to look away but the brightness doesn’t seem to affect him in the same way.

“It’s the energy from the plants,” he says, “if I connect to it long enough and don’t have somewhere to channel it, I can create this.”

“Can you turn it off?” Squirrel asks, “I can’t see.”

Lancelot stands up. When he does, the fire pulls up around his hand. Like it’s going back inside of him. Smoke mushrooms out from the now dead weed patch and the whole thing collapses to the ground in a pile of ash. Pym pulls her cloak up around her face as the smoke dissipates. When it does, Lancelot is nearby. Because he can smell them, she remembers. It makes sense that his kind would need to find each other if they had to use what he can do regularly. She’s never seen smoke so thick, but then again she’s never seen the legendary Fire. It’s supposed to have been lost to time. Nimue told her about the Leper King who had the last of it, about how her father wanted to destroy the sword with it. About how that failed. Fire capable of destroying a magic sword, the only thing capable of doing it. She thinks of the heat and the chaos and the cracking trees, how for a moment she thought they were dead. How easy it would have been.

“You didn’t tell them,” she realizes aloud.

Both of them look at her. Realization sparks in Squirrel’s eyes while something much closer to guilt is written all over Lancelot. There’s no pride in not telling them, she realizes. Lancelot hasn’t seemed particularly sorry for his past deeds. This is the tent sharing all over again. This lie means something to him. In his warped and hypocritical way of thinking, not telling his brothers is wrong. There isn’t any pride in what he can do or how many he may have inadvertently saved. There is just the shame of keeping a secret. Of withholding a tool. Her stomach clenches at the thought of how easy it would be to wipe out a village with this. It didn’t seem difficult for him to do it without it, but she and Squirrel are proof that stragglers can escape. They’re like the horses than ran ahead. She doesn’t think anything could survive what he did to the black robed ones.

“No,” he says simply.

“Why not?” She asks, aware it sounds more like a challenge than a question, “and why didn’t you use it before? Why did you need my knives when you could do—“ the can hear the crack of the trees in her ears still, “that?”

“It’s an Ash Folk secret,” he says.

“You didn’t seem to have a problem telling them the rest of your kinds secrets,” she shoots back. He looks down, “why that one?” Squirrel tugs at her cloak and she shakes him off, pushing him back. She dimly realizes she’s moved forward to put herself in between the two of them, but she doesn’t stop, “you could have wiped out our entire people with that. Not just sniffed them out like some kind of rabid dog.”

His throat moves and his eyes go to the patch of ash. She doesn’t shy away from the thought that is what her home could look like. Her home and so many others. She’s angry, she realizes. She doesn’t want the spark of hope she sees on Squirrels face. She doesn’t want to think that he’s had something good in him this entire time. That not turning her home and everyone she cared about into fine white ash is something she should be grateful for. She doesn’t care about the amulet all of a sudden, or rather the only thing she can think of is it lying on the pile of ash she would be reduced to if he did that to her.

“It saved my life,” he says finally, “I didn’t need to tell them anything else.”

“But you could have, later on. And you didn’t. Why?”

“Because—“

“Because?”

“Because it’s not for anyone but the Ash Folk,” he snaps and the genuine anger in his voice makes her hold her breath. He glares at her for a moment, as though daring her to say something else but she finds herself unable to talk. He tries to bring himself back under control but it’s transparent. She can see the anger still, “and it’s not supposed to be used to kill.”

“See?” Squirrel drops his cloak and leaves it in her death grip, stepping out of her reach before pushing between them, “he used it to protect us,” she thinks of the black figures who were trying to kill them and thinks of them all being ash now. She’s glad for it, does that make her as bad as them? “I saw him almost die and he didn’t use it, so he’s got control. You don’t have to be scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You look scared,” Squirrel says.

“I’m not,” she repeats, refusing to acknowledge the stinging feeling in her eyes.

“So—“ Squirrel stops when Lancelot’s hand drops onto his shoulder. Pym doesn’t know how he listens so easily. So willingly. She doesn’t know if she’s ever going to be able to hear to him again without thinking of what she just saw. Without thinking of him defending his Folk’s secret and being willing to destroy everyone else, “I was just asking,” Squirrel mumbles.

“Stay here,” Lancelot says.

“Where are you going?”

“To find the horse.”

She watches him slip into the woods. She doesn’t know what possesses her to walk over to the ash pile. It’s so fine. She’s surprised that she can hold anything in her hand. Is it because of the nature of the fuel? Or is there just another ash pile where those people and those trees stood? She half wants to look, though she knows she wouldn’t be able to find her way back. Could being lost in the forest really be worse than being here? She could tie Squirrel up and just go. It’s been a half formed thought this entire time. Now would be the time to do it. No matter how anxiously he’s peering out into the woods, worried about a monster he considered a friend.

“You shouldn’t have made him leave,” he says finally, “just ‘cause your upset. I thought you didn’t want to take it out on him.”

She should have know Squirrel was fake sleeping.

She doesn’t know why that’s the tipping point. Maybe it’s one lie too many, maybe it’s just everything stacked up on top of each other but suddenly she can’t see though her tears. She’s done everything to not feel useless and suddenly that’s all she feels. Squirrel’s just a boy but they aren’t just anything anymore. When she wipes her face she thinks about the ash she must have gotten on her skin and that nearly makes her weep.

“I’m sorry, Pym,” Squirrel says suddenly, horror painting his features at her tears instead of any of the other things they’ve been through, “I didn’t mean to lie, I was gonna tell you—“

“I don’t care that you were pretending to sleep.”

“Then what’s wrong? Are you scared of Lancelot?”

“Yes!” She says, finally giving into the truth that she’s been trying to ignore, “he killed so many—“ she shakes her head, “we could still have a home if it wasn’t for him. I thought he didn’t care about the Fey but he did, he just didn’t care about any Folk who weren’t his own.”

Squirrel lets her cry and awkwardly rubs her back when she does. Pym gives up trying to feel brave or anything but terrible and homesick and so very small. She keeps quiet because she’s learned to cry quietly. So others wouldn’t tease her, so the Raiders wouldn’t see. But her shoulders still shake and she knows she’s not doing a good job of hiding it as she weeps. She can’t even say it’s just for her. She cries for her friends, for Nimue, for Dof—for everyone the hateful church and that stupid king has taken. She cries because the world doesn’t make sense and she was thinking that maybe, in some small way, it was starting to again. When she’s all out of tears and reduced to pitifully shaky breaths she looks up to see Squirrel is still standing there awkwardly rubbing her back, looking at her with the horror that only a young boy can muster for a tearful woman.

“Do you feel better?” He asks timidly.

“I think so,” Pym says.

“Are you going to cry again?”

“Not tonight,” she says, wiping her cheeks again, “you’re safe from that at least.”

“Phew,” Squirrel says in such an exaggerated manner she knows he’s teasing, “do you want some water?”

She nods and gets to her feet, brushing off the ash. She doesn’t know why she feels better, even just a little, after crying. But she does. She drinks something and makes sure Goliath is as comfortable as he can be. The horse doesn’t seem perturbed to stand there. He doesn’t seem perturbed by anything. Even she can admit he’s well trained. She makes sure he has water before she sits next to Squirrel

“I’ll wait up for Lancelot, you should go to sleep,” he says.

“Alright,” Pym lies.

It takes about five minutes for him to fall asleep. She checks to make sure he’s really out thought this time. Not just faking it. Then there’s nothing to do but wait. She half thinks that maybe Lancelot has taken the other horse with its weapons and gone off. She ties Goliath with magic, just to ensure Lancelot won’t try anything. Then she goes back to waiting. She doesn’t get half way through rehearsing her demands before he appears out of the shadows leading the other horse. If the horse was badly shaken it doesn’t appear so, it follows him obediently. No hard feelings. Pym half wishes she was like that horse. He stops a good few feet from their makeshift camp and walks around so that she’s between him and Squirrel. She knows he won’t come closer without permission. She doesn’t know how, she just knows it.

“I want to know why,” she says, and doesn’t wait for a rebuttal. She holds his gaze, “can you explain?” His lips press together, “will you?”

Something seems to deflate him slightly, or maybe he’s already given up his biggest secret. But he nods.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes ok please don’t hate me, but I didn’t want this to just be ‘excuse the genocide because he’s pretty and does the minimum’. Honestly the tear marks cemented the fire thing for me because leopards have them to reflect the light. But that also makes complications arise for Lancelot & Co. But yay horse number 2 is back!
> 
> Yadayadayada feedback is love. You guys are amazing and I love reading your comments. Come yell with me on my tumblrs etc. I’ll see you in the next chapter!


	10. Ash: Part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick heads up: There's some non-graphic mention of child abuse and murder with Lancelot's village in this chapter. It's not more than what's been in the story so far, but because he's vaguely discussing childhood trauma I wanted to give a heads up.

Pym sits straighter than he’s seen her and fists her hands in her dress and just waits. It’s infuriating, but he shoves the anger aside. Some part of him—actually most of him—longs for his Brothers who had learned to stop asking questions. Father was unwilling to talk and had ordered him to silence, but that didn’t stop them. Father let it continue until he was certain that he would keep his mouth shut. Certain that he could keep a secret. Then he ordered them to stop asking questions. Looking back on it, he wonders if Father had any inclination he was keeping such a useful secret the entire time. Now he’s back in the present. He knows the story, his story, but the prospect of telling it is uncomfortable.

Not as uncomfortable as the things he’s done today, but certainly more on the side of exposing his powers than having the arrows cut out of him.

“The Church came to my village,” he says, “they rounded up the children and brought us to Brother Salt. They were trying to save us,” Pym makes a noise of disgust but doesn’t cut in. He takes a breath, “I was a boy. I wanted the pain to stop.”

It had made sense at the time. To this day he doesn’t know how it didn’t occur to any of the other boys. If they were braver or stronger or just died faster. It had always been impressed upon him that the Fire was a secret. That his Folk died to protect that secret after they had been killed for it by everyone. Humans, Fey—everyone wanted the Fire. He doesn’t know if he would have said something if telling them he could smell the others hadn’t stopped the pain. He doesn’t think about it. The pain stopped. He survived. He knows he doesn’t have use for what ifs. Of the what if’s he could hurt himself with, that one is not top of the list anyway.

“They herded everyone into their houses and they burned the village down,” he says. He sees the confusion on her face, “Fey Fire isn’t regular fire.”

“I know, but—“ she looks down at her hands, “if there was a time—“

“I thought the same,” he says, “but if they saw the children being taken away, they knew what they would do to us if they knew. Keeping Fire from them was more important.”

Pym’s throat bobs and he knows what she’s thinking. She doesn’t understand that what was done to him was not the worst they could do. He isn’t maimed like Brother Salt or fanatical like the Brothers who have felt His Grace and been driven to madness. The Pope takes them. He knows whether it is by his own stubbornness or his own damnation, he has some freedoms. Freedom to not kill the little ones, to not dress in red, to not have had his marks burned from his skin. None of those freedoms have felt good, but they have been there. Obstacles on his Road, as Father would say. Things preventing him from being Saved.

“What you did to the people in the trees—“

“Children don’t know how to control it.”

It settles on her that his Folk died to keep their secrets. He knows the irony that in trying to protect the young ones from one fire, they were largely condemned to another. The ones that escaped it did so by dying a different way. He knows it was cleverness and cowardice that saved him. He’s proud of neither, not anymore. She thinks on what he’s said. He wishes that there had been more time to practice conversing before his abilities were put to the ultimate test like this. But life doesn’t work that way. It never has.

“So once you were theirs, once you signed up for this,” she motions to him, “why not tell them? You’ve had years where you could have.”

“They already thought I was born of a demon,” he says, “I didn’t want them to think the hellfire had already gotten me.”

It made sense to his mind as a child. It had never really stopped making sense. Maybe because he knew that his position was precarious. Every time he even wavered, Father would speak of how he was damned or how he was not even on the Road. Or they would speak of the Fey. And his tongue would lay quiet in his mouth. If he was damned because of a lie, what kind of damnation would they think he would suffer because of the Fire? Some combination of that and of the knowledge as a child that this secret was not one to share kept his mouth closed about it. There was nothing brave about his silence. It was cowardice. The thread of it seems to run through all of his actions since that day.

“I don’t think anyone who can do what I saw you do has reason to be afraid,” Pym says finally.

Discomfort churns in his guts and he shakes his head.

“They were foolish enough to pick interconnected trees,” he says, “I was never trained. I don’t know how to do it without fuel.”

“Could others?”

He hesitates and immediately kicks himself for the theatrics. After what he has just told her, after what she has seen, it’s not as though he has any secret that matters anymore.

“Yes,” he says finally.

She falls silent again. After spending the past days praying that she and Squirrel would be silent, now that she is, it’s unsettling. She looks almost like the Folk he’s hunted down. Scared and tearful and exhausted. If it had been back when he did that, he thinks now would have been the time when he cut her down. If he was lucky he would leave the boy to wake up alone, if he was not his companions would take care of him. It’s an unsettling feeling. But not the blinding grief when he thinks of home or the betrayal he’s dealt his Brothers. He knew the practical thing back at camp was to cut his throat and leave him so he could not follow. He knows the practical thing now is to kill both of them so they cannot tell his secret. He ignores the impulse and the discomfort that comes with not doing the practical thing.  
“I don’t understand, why didn’t you run?”

“I couldn’t,” he says.

“Why not?”

He tries to push down the anger. He’s answered more questions in the past moments than he has in years. Explained more about himself than he ever wished to. But it’s not enough. It feels like kneeling in the Holy Church again, praying for Grace and feeling nothing. There’s no Father to tell him he simply needs to try harder. He thought that Grace would be the hardest thing he would strive for, if he ever came close at all. The silence stung. Now he would kill for that silence. The demand for explanations and words and accountability feels as though it will drive him mad.

“I woke up on a boat,” he says finally. Pym looks distinctly un-impressed, “I had never been on one before. I didn’t know where they were taking me.”

“And after that?” She asks.

He says nothing to that. He sees her shift uncomfortably. If she hadn’t seen his skin or his actions, she may not have pieced it together. She’s figured it out but he half expects her to demand he say the words. She still may eventually. But for the moment she gives a quick nod of understanding and looks down at her hands. He doesn’t know if he’s said the right thing. If there is a right thing to say. He considers if she thinks he’s weak for not escaping. For not burning with the others. Whatever bravery he had back then was always tainted with weakness. He was a child who told tall tales and had clever words to get out of trouble, not any actual bravery. He thought he had learned to be brave but he sees the folly in it now.

“I got myself onto a boat too,” she says finally, “there was less torture on mine,” he looks over at her sharply. Her body language has softened. In his head some sharply trained voice says now would be the proper time to kill her. When she has her guard down. He ignores that voice and the longing to listen to it, “thank you for telling me that.”

It’s frustrating to not know if anything changed. He’s used to immediate reactions. Clear consequences. Pym is slightly relaxed but not by much. She’s still afraid. He doesn’t know Squirrel’s feelings but he didn’t seem afraid before, so he doubts there’s any change there. When he looks over at the horses, they’re both grazing. Neither truly seeming to care about what happened earlier. It’s confusing and infuriating wrapped up in one. Worse, he’s powerless to do anything about it. When he stands up, Pym’s gaze follows him but she doesn’t tell him to leave. He walks over to his mount. The horse raises his head and huffs at him, lipping his extended hand like he’s a foal or he has a treat. Neither is true, but he lets him do it before he goes back to grazing.

He looks over to see Pym giving the other horse water. She comes over and pulls out her healers bag, rifling through it for a moment before producing a pair of black gloves. She holds them out to him. He looks at them and back at her. She still looks afraid, but she also looks determined. Like she knows this is a practical thing she must do.

“The Raiders gave me these for traction but they’re too big. They may fit you.”

“What I told you already happened,” he says.

“This isn’t about what you just told me,” she replies, “what’s happened has happened and all of us will have to live with it for the rest of our days,” she continues, “but making your life harder will only make me feel better for now and that’s not what I want,” she holds the gloves out to him, “maybe next time we all won’t be so distracted we wind up in a situation where you have to use it.”

He can’t bear to stand there and puzzle over what she’s doing so he takes the gloves from her. She puts her bag back up. They fit well. He wonders whose they were, but he reasons that there’s a good chance he killed one or more of the previous owners and decides to leave that argument for another day.

“You should get some rest,” he says, “if you can.”

She nods and goes back. He’s sure Squirrel was asleep but he sees the boy stirring. He looks between the two of them, makes a noise, rolls over and goes back to sleep as though all is right in the world. It takes longer for Pym’s breathing to even out, but she falls asleep as well. He’s gone for much longer without sleep. In a way keeping watch feels like the only thing he can do. At the very least it’s familiar. He gets the bow down from Goliath and the horse comes over to put himself at his side, keeping his own watch.

Lancelot nocks an arrow and settles into waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So I wanted to give some context but not have what happened excuse Lancelot's actions. Hope I succeeded just a little bit. Please let me know what you think! Feedback is love, come scream about cursed on my [tumblr](https://planetsam.tumblr.com) or my other one [tumblr](https://venomrps.tumblr.com) and I will see you in the next chapter!


	11. Ash: Part 11

There’s no choice anymore, it’s gotten past the point of anything resembling proper. Much as she wishes that it hadn’t. She hates the idea of being so exposed but she doesn’t have much of a choice.

“We should stop,” she says. They both turn to look at her, “I hear water.”

“We have water,” Squirrel says.

She looks between the two of them and sighs.

“We need to clean up,” she says. They trade looks, “they probably don’t even need a Fey to track us at this point,” she continues, “and we all smell like burned wood.”

The implication hovers in the air. Squirrel looks repulsed at the idea but she can see Lancelot considering it. That must mean the smell is really bad. He dismounts and drops the reins of the horse he’s been riding. It’s been only a few days but she stands still as though he’s given her an order. Pym watches as he grasps the nearest branch in his now gloved hands and hauls himself up. He disappears quickly into the trees and she lays a hand on Goliath when he shifts his weight like he’d prefer his human kept both feet on the ground. After a little while he comes back down and drops silently to the ground. She hears Squirrel’s sharp inhale and sees how impressed he is.

“We can stop,” he says.

They find the running water she heard earlier and Pym breathes a sigh of relief. Tucked into her healers bag she has a few bars of the soap the Raiders used to get the salt off their skin when it got too uncomfortable. She divides a piece of one up, giving thought to everyone’s needs. She turns around to distribute the soap. She’s seen Lancelot half naked before, and she doesn’t have his qualms about the opposite sex. But she’s surprised to see just how long his hair is when he takes it down. Though there are marks on his face, plain for all to see, the long hair makes him look instantly like one of their men.

“Your hair’s long,” she says stupidly.

“Easier to pull back,” he says, either ignoring her remark or not realizing the implications.

“We wear our hair long,” she says, “I’ve never seen a Paladin with it.”

“He doesn’t,” Lancelot says, nodding towards Squirrel.

“That’s because I got lice,” Squirrel says glumly, “my mom had to shave my head so I wouldn’t spread it.”

“It’ll grow back,” Pym assures him, like she’s been doing for months.

Hair seems like such a trivial thing to be upset about now, but at the time it had been devastating. Seeing him glum about it seems like a sign that maybe there’s some part of that simpler time in some part of the world. Even just a fraction. Squirrel wrinkles his nose and takes the sliver of soap she hands him. Lancelot takes the other with another of his nods. She takes the last chunk and finds a nearby place sheltered by some rocks. She knows this is necessary, she also knows it’s going to be bitterly cold. Still there’s no point in lingering on it so she pulls off her clothes and gets in.

It’s worse than she thought and she can’t quite stop the yelp. Neither can Squirrel from the sound of it.

“We need to be quiet,” Lancelot says.

“Sorry we can’t all be silent like you,” she mutters, though she knows he’s right.

She doesn’t want to think of what makes a man capable of being silent when arrows are being pulled out of him. She knows it, but she doesn’t want to linger on the thought. Instead she focuses on making herself as clean as possible and scrubbing the smell of mythical fire out of her hair. That and days of travel, blood, sweat and everything else. It half makes her want to shave her head if this is to be her life now, but her hair has always been her favorite thing about herself. She’s not ready to hack that off. It takes a few scrubbings and the soap to be all used before she’s clean. Or as clean as she can be. She knows they can’t linger but it feels so nice to be in the water. She forces herself to get out and get dressed. She goes back to the spot where the two boys are.

Lancelot’s got one of the knives and is shaving the hairs from his jaw. His hair is wet and tangled. If she didn’t know he was a monster, she imagines she would think he was just another Fey knight. But Squirrel watches him sharply and she remembers that there’s no-one to teach him to do that. That or any number of things a father should teach their sons. Lancelot is responsible for that, but Lancelot also didn’t have a father. Not truly. The entire thing is wildly confusing. She doesn’t know who to feel bad for, who to feel angry at or how she should really feel at all. So instead she goes and gets her comb and sets about working the knots from her hair. Which has always been her least favorite part of wash day.

“I wish Nimue was here, she always liked wash day,” Squirrel says.

Pym feels her heart ache as the hair on the back of her neck stands up. Nimue always felt connected to the water. She was forever causing splash fights and her laughter would usually be the loudest thing you could hear on wash day. Remembering that made her ache. The reminder that part of the reason she’s gone is Lancelot makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She looks over at him, but the name doesn’t seem to mean anything. Squirrel looks back at her and she smiles sadly.

“She always did make it more fun,” she agrees.

She feels strange talking about her friend in front of Lancelot. She wonders if it will always feel strange talking about these things in front of him. Or if that will be something she has to be concerned with at all. She has no idea what he has planned for his future or if he even has a plan. The tumble of emotions almost makes her queasy so she focuses instead on finishing unknotting her hair and then braiding it like she has been wearing it.

“Here,” she says, offering Lancelot the comb. He looks at her outstretched hand and then back to her face, “if you’re shaving with one of my knives, I’m guessing you don’t have a comb.”

He takes it from her almost gingerly and then sets about combing his hair. It takes a much shorter amount of time. She doesn’t know why she’s relieved when he combs his hair to hide the bald patch and cross, but it feels a little easier to breathe, even though she knows that it’s there.

“Why’s your hair cut like that?” Squirrel asks.

“It shows devotion,” Lancelot says. When no-one stops him he continues, “Saint Peter was the first—“ he trails off as they look at him blankly, “it’s a show of faith,” he says.

“How’s cutting your hair a show of faith? And whose Saint Peter?”

Lancelot is silent for a moment and looks at her. Her discomfort must show on her face because he presses his lips together. Pym kicks herself. There’s no harm in his stories, what on earth are they going to do? Squirrel is Fey and Lancelot isn’t converting anyone. Besides, she reminds herself, the damage is already done. She doesn’t need to be afraid of stories or the color red just because of the connection it has. She doesn’t need to give any of these things power.

“Tell us who Saint Peter is,” she says, “if the story can do more damage than what’s been done, I’d be interested to hear it.”

He considers it for a moment before getting to his feet.

“I’ll tell you when we stop for the night,” he says, “we should make up the time we’ve lost.”

It’s a lot easier to stand so close and let him boost her up with the smell largely gone and his hair combed over the mark. She braces against his shoulder and swings herself up into Goliath’s saddle. It’s still uncomfortable but it’s not as terrible as the second day. Squirrel settles in front of her and that also is entirely more pleasant with the smell gone. It’s more tolerable but that doesn’t make it easier to relax. Actually the only thing that makes her feel truly safe is Goliath. It’s odd to have her faith in people replaced by faith in an animal, but she supposes odd is going to be her life from now on.

Lancelot has them stop eventually and dismounts without a word, walking forward and inhaling. Pym tightens her grip on the reins but Goliath gives no indication that it’s time to flee. He doesn’t react at all. Though she imagines the sight of Lancelot with his nose tipped up and his eyes shut isn’t anything new to him. When he turns back to them, she can see the frustration in his face. Her heart jumps as her mind goes through everything that could be wrong. It keeps circling back to that he’s lost the trail. Her idea for a bath has delayed them and the trail is gone. She’s cost Squirrel his home.

“What is it?” She asks. Lancelot looks at her sharply, like he’s forgotten she’s there.

“There’s a village,” he says, “they must have snuck through it,” he seems more frustrated if possible, “we went through it before. They’ll recognize me,” he looks at Goliath, “we should make camp and you two should ride ahead in the morning and join them.”

“No,” Squirrel says quickly, “we’re not leaving you.”

“He’s right,” Pym hears herself saying, “we’ll make camp and think of a plan,” she looks at him, “unless you want to leave.”

“He—“ she claps a hand over Squirrel’s mouth.

Lancelot looks at her in that odd way of his, as though he’s trying to see into some part of her not visible to the naked eye. Pym doesn’t know why, she’s never been a good liar and she knows she hasn’t improved in that area. Perhaps he’s expecting her to give him permission or ask him to come along. She can’t do either of those things. She refuses to be someone who orders him around. He’s going to have to make his own decisions, something that will be even more true if he joins whatever is left of their home.  
“We’ll make camp,” he says, “and see what we come up with.”

It’s odd to hear the word ‘we’ come from his lips.

But after the past few days, she’ll take oddities like that gladly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think and feel free to come scream about them on my Tumblrs! See you in the next chapter!


	12. Ash: Part 12

  
The ripping sound digs into him.

The practical part of him says that this isn’t important and he shouldn’t care about a bit of fabric. Some other part of him says it was a gift from his Father. It means something. He listens to neither part and just watched as Pym rips seams and then sets about sewing. She’s fast and confident in her motions as she re-fashions the dark green fabric. His loose clothing suddenly becomes much more well fitting and far more like the clothing he sees the men wearing in town. Much more like what Arthur wears.

“They’ll recognize the marks,” he says.

Pym doesn’t stop sewing. Only the furrow of her brow tells him that she’s heard. It smooths out and she ignores him until she’s done. Then she stands up and hands him a pile of refashioned garments.

“I have a plan for that,” she says, “be careful putting those on, it’s not my best work,” she nudges Squirrel awake, “try these on.”

When they rejoin, they look like a normal traveling group. They could be from anywhere. He has to admit that if not for his marks, they could pass as something other than themselves. Her hair is also distinctive but there are other fire haired women. She looks them over and nods. He realizes belatedly that she has more experience passing as a human than any of them. Successfully anyways. He thinks of the Knights confusion and wonders how he thought his Brothers didn’t know. It doesn’t matter now. The betrayal if he had told them he was Fey would have been inconsequential, but it never happened. Pym and Squirrel’s refusal to leave him or to abandon him, even when it makes sense, shows him that the Knight was not lying. Fey are brothers. He thinks of that more as their reunion with the rest of them looms. When Pym and Squirrel could betray him in a way that matters.

He watches as Pym undoes her hair and brushes it out. It is distinctive, he realizes. If he was telling someone to look for her that would be something he would use to mark her appearance. He watches as she braids her hair and starts tucking and pinning it. When she lowers her hands her hair is tucked and pinned in such a way that it looks much shorter. If she keeps her hood up it will be hard to see. Especially if she ties it back. There is nothing that would mark Squirrel as distinctive appearance was. With a few small adjustments the pair could pass as related. That will make it easier to slip through.

“What’s the plan?” He asks finally. She looks at him quietly for a moment. He doesn’t know why she’s hesitating, “do you not have one?”

“I have one,” she says with a scowl, “you’re just going to have to wait. I can’t tell you,” he presses his lips together, “you have no patience, do you?”

“Not at the end of it,” he says.

“Fine,” she looks over her shoulder, “wait there.”

He can’t hear what she says to Squirrel. He catches a few words but apparently Fey are better at keeping their whispers to themselves than he would have thought. He sees Squirrel start for him and Pym drags him back. But finally they both come back to where he’s sitting. He looks between the two of them before he settles on Pym. But she nudges Squirrel forward. He looks at the boy instead.

“You said people wanted what you could do,” Squirrel says, “they want what I can do too.”

“Here,” Pym holds her hand out, “you can show him on me.”

Squirrel grips her hand. Vines creep on his skin and the smell is sharp before it abruptly vanishes. Like someone has blown out a candle. It’s disorienting when he realizes the marks on Squirrel’s skin are gone as well. He watches as Pym passes her hand over the cloak, the threads tightening in response. He can see the wink of her magic, but no vines appear on her skin and the smell of her doesn’t change. He focuses on Squirrel. He can still smell them but not in the way that he usually can when Fey use magic.

“I can hide them,” Squirrel says.

“How long does it last?” He asks, surprised at how hoarse his voice is. But its been a long time since he’s been shocked like this.

“I have to concentrate,” Squirrel says, “I’ve made it last a few hours,” he looks down, “I’m still learning.”

“You’re doing fine,” Pym says, “we’re all learning. Right, Lancelot?”

He realizes that she’s looking at him and wordlessly nods in agreement. He is. Especially when it comes to the other parts of his abilities. He has had no reason to practice, nor the opportunity. He doesn’t know if he ever will. The fire is not supposed to be shared. But he has shared it. Squirrel lets go of the magic he’s used on himself and Pym and their smell comes back sharp. Like someone is waving it under his nose. He stands up and steps back to breath fresher air. A few hours isn’t ideal but it should be enough time to find the others. As long as they’re safe, that’s what matters.

“Here,” Pym appears near him suddenly with a jar in her hand. When she opens the lid it’s so pungent he can smell nothing else, “well that it got rid of the rest of that look, though you got better.”

He’s grateful when she screws the lid back on. Apparently his latest penance is to be in a world determined to make him smell one overwhelming thing after another. But he knows that they have to act as inconspicuous as possible to get to where they’re going without alerting anyone. Getting into a fight with his Brothers will not help. His former Brothers. The reworking he needs to do of the world makes his head spin, almost as badly as the smell of Fey using magic so close. He can’t pretend it isn’t nice to have company as he’s running from everything. Though the idea of being around other Fey makes him nervous. Which is not a feeling he’s had to suffer through since he was a very young boy.

“You look that disgusted and you’ll just look like most people in towns.”

“Have you been in many?”

“Not as many as you,” Pym says without missing a beat, “but I’m sure I’ll catch up.”

“Or your people will find a new haven,” he says.

“If they’ve left, will you be able to track them?” She asks after a moment, “can you do that if they’ve taken ships?”

He’s surprised to see it’s a genuine question. A fair one, if he thinks about it. He finds himself oddly humbled by the realization that despite her people being so close, she’s elected to stay to make sure they all get there. He’s accepted that Fey think of themselves as a brotherhood, but given the atrocities he’s done specifically to her and her Folk, he’s surprised at how far she’s been willing to put her own desires to the side to help him. Even if they both know there’s no guarantee that he’ll be able to stay.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, “I haven’t tracked over the sea,” her face falls, “but I’ve tracked after losing a trail,” he adds, “I’ll find them.”

She looks at him and he thinks it may have been the wrong thing to say. Reassuring people is not a skill he’s ever had to develop. Or use. His life has always been simple. Either he does the thing he’s asked to do or he is punished. His usefulness has always made it so killing him is something that has to be thought about, though now he knows it’s on the table. When he was a boy he was forever saying the wrong things. That doesn’t seem to have changed with time. She glances away and then looks back at him.

“You know that should be frightening to hear from your mouth,” she says, “but I’m glad,” she folds her arms, “you can’t tell anyone about what Squirrel can do.”

“Of course not,” he says.

“And we won’t tell anyone what you can do,” she adds, “talking about what we can do isn’t something we normally do, but I don’t think any of this is normal. I don’t know what the others are sharing. We should just be on the same page with what we don’t want others to know.”

He watches her twist her fingers like she’s tying a knot. He’s done enough interrogations to know that you get the most answers when someone has their hands free. When they tell you they’re lying. Of course his methods were always considered too kind, especially when compared to the theatrics Brother Salt was known for. It wasn’t as ‘cleansing’. Of course he wasn’t sure what was cleansing about killing and not getting the truth, but that was never for him to decide. He looks at her features and can see she’s deep in thought.

“Are you nervous about joining up with them?” He asks, breaking through. She raises her head and opens her mouth and then falls silent, nodding her response, “why?”

“Everything’s different,” she says, “I feel different,” she picks at her dress, “being around them was never going to be the same, but it’s worse than I thought it would be. And everyone’s so grateful to be together—“ she looks down, “I miss my friend.”

“Nimue,” he says. She looks away.

“It’s fine,” she cuts in, “she’s probably still out there somewhere. She said she was going to meet us where we were going if she could. And there’s nothing she couldn’t do, so—I’ll see her again someday.”

He looks at her and doesn’t understand why him saying her name is something she can’t wrap her head around. He doesn’t know why the name of a Fey should affect him so much. Unless—it clicks then. The realization is heavy. Irrationally he wishes that he was in the middle of a fight or that the Guard would attack. Or that he had his cloak so he could shield himself in it’s confines. But he has no such kindnesses from the world. He deserves none of them.

“Nimue is the Wolf-Blood Witch,” he says. He looks back at Squirrel and remembers his fondness for Nimue as well, “he knew her too.”

“We were friends,” Pym says. Her eyes narrow and that anger he’s seen comes back into her face, “you didn’t even know the name of the one you were hunting.”

He forces himself not to get lost in the realization that he’s been traveling with the people who knew the one he was hunting best. Normally the Fey are all just Fey, the individual rarely matters. But the Wolf-Blood Witch, she was different. She mattered. He can still recall her scent. The failure of his last hunt for the Brothers digs at him, even if he can admit that he was distracted towards the end. But perhaps that was not so much an accident either, if Squirrel knew her.

“Did the Green Knight know her?” He asks, “as you do?”

Pym presses her lips together and the urge to get the answers blinds him for a moment. He’s closer before he realizes what he’s doing. His body remembers and his mind wants, even as a third part of him rallies against all of that. Pym steps back and that new, third part of him roars louder. As though it’s making up for lost time and all the time it’s been silent. Or silenced. He knows the look on Pym’s face. The one he’s seen on every Fey for many years. It’s never been something he’s relished but it’s never been something he’s minded either. To his surprise, he minds it this time.

“I’m sorry,” he says and the shock of the words wipes the fear off Pym’s face, “I didn’t mean to—“ frustration adds to the emotions and he’s almost grateful for the familiarity, “I’m not here to hurt your friend.”

Pym looks away and he holds himself still, waiting for her punishment. That’s how outbursts are always met. Or losses of control. He wouldn’t be surprised if she told him to go, that he wasn’t safe to have around. He hates how much he wants that to happen, while at the same time hoping it doesn’t. Hope is such a terrible thing. If he misses anything from his time with the Brothers, it’s the absence of hope. It made life so much more simpler.

“You have to find another way to deal with that,” she says, “if not for yourself than for Squirrel. It’s hard being friends with someone people are afraid of.”

“You’ll be associated with me as well,” he points out, wondering if she’s realized that she’s in the same boat as Squirrel, “we’ve been traveling together.”

“I’ve been friends with Nimue since we were girls,” she says, “I’m used to being friends with people everyone is afraid of. Everyone still thought Squirrel would grow out of it, they realized I wouldn’t a long time ago.”

“You could change,” he says.

“I have changed. Everything’s changed,” she brushes her hands down her skirt, “but I’ve kept that part of myself so far. I’m not giving it up,” she frowns, “and don’t say that, you sound like the ones I don’t miss.”

It’s a horrible thing to say and she seems to realize that because the horror is back on her face. But it’s also a very practical thing to say. There’s people everywhere who don’t like each other for any number of reasons. There are Brothers he longed to be accepted by and Brothers whose contempt he almost relished. At the very least he didn’t mind it so much. Pym shakes her head and her face goes between a smile and horror so many times in a moment, it’s practically dizzying.

“What a terrible thing—“

“I understand,” he offers.

“I wish you didn’t,” she admits.

He understands that too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I can't thank you enough for the comments/kudos/tumblr posts. My muse is a total sucker for feedback and it really helps me want to push forward with the story.


	13. Ash: Part 13

The first flash of red makes her heart leap.

They’re talking with their heads down, not looking at anyone in particular. There’s no reason for them to look. The most suspicious thing is the gasp she has to fight to keep from escaping. But they don’t even glance at her. She only breathes when they pass by. Their paths only cross for a moment but it’s the longest moment and then it’s over and they continue down the road that leads to the main part of the village. Lancelot leads them through, keeping his head down. If it’s harder to sniff them out, he doesn’t show it as he moves.

“There.”

Pym turns as she’s suddenly grabbed by a black hooded figure who seems to know to clap her hand over her mouth. It takes her only a moment to recognize the Red Spear. Pym’s never been so glad to see the Raider in her entire life. She has to actually stop herself from hugging her, though she’s sure that would be met with nothing good. The Spear even takes the time to roll her eyes at her relief before clapping her on the shoulder. She motions them all to be quiet and leads them down a few more streets and to the docks.

“Thankfully you didn’t make us wait longer,” she says gruffly.

“We came as fast as we could,” Pym assures her, keeping a hand on Squirrel. She’s not losing anyone this close, “where—“

“Not here,” she says, continuing down the docks, “has the horse been on the water yet?”

“He’ll be fine,” Pym says, it’s only a half lie.

She pushes Squirrel forward and leads Goliath up the ramp. She looks back to make sure Lancelot isn’t having trouble with the other horse and is surprised to see he’s not behind them. Her heart jumps into her throat, but she spots him at the end of the pier. Standing still. She quickly hands Goliath’s reins to Squirrel before he can realize what’s going on. Goliath won’t fight the boy, she could drop his reins and he would stand there. But with Squirrel’s ability for trouble she knows that leaving the ship is bad. She hurries back to where Lancelot is.

“We have to go,” she says.

Lancelot drags his eyes to hers.

Of course he would be afraid of ships.

She looks over his shoulder. She can’t see any Paladins coming but that doesn’t mean they won’t be there soon. They are so close. She refuses to accept the thought that this will all fall apart. There are fears that Pym accepts, there are fears that she does not. This falls somewhere in the middle but right now, right now she needs it to be unacceptable. She needs him to get on the ship.

“Lancelot, we have to get on the ship,” he looks at her almost blankly, “come on.”

She doesn’t know what posses her to grab the horses reins and pull the mount forward, but she does. Lancelot holds the horse but starts walking. It’s a sickeningly long pier suddenly and she’s sure that every breath is going to be her last. Or his last. Or the horse’s last. But each breath ends and she inhales her next. From the deck she can see the Red Spear looking from her to the docks and back again. But when their eyes lock and she’s glared at, Pym finds herself glaring right back. She’s never been so grateful for an uphill, though it’s too narrow for them to go three by three. Thankfully one of the Raider’s takes the reins and she manages to grab one of Lancelot’s hands and pull him and somehow all three of them make it onto the boat.

Before they even have time to catch their breaths the lines are being thrown back. Her heart sinks as she realizes that Nimue isn’t here. Even as logic tells her that she wouldn’t want them to wait for them, that she would want them to be safe, she has to fight the urge to say they should wait for her. Especially when, as the ship starts to pull away, she hears shouts. The Raiders curse and start to move. Before she fully has time to think what she’s doing through, she grabs Squirrel and hauls both of them off the deck and out of the way. Lancelot might be a good archer but he still seems shocked and she can see Squirrel’s magic finally releasing it’s hold. They’ll recognize him. She looks over to see Lancelot go that same green shade but worse. She knows that look. Worse she sees it on Squirrel.

Thankfully there’s two buckets.

The Red Spear comes down and looks between the pair of them and then focuses on Pym. She drops Pym’s bag with a heavy thunk and then a second bag Pym hasn’t seen before. But both seem to be for her. She walks over, glaring at Lancelot and Pym moves so she’s between the pair of them.

“Did he hurt you? Try anything?” The Red Spear grips one of the dozen knives on her, “anything at all?”

“What? No!” Pym says.

“Damn,” she says and doesn’t drop her hand, though she looks vaguely disappointed. Her eyes narrow, “no stomach on either of them,” she mutters, “standby in case you’re needed.”

“It’s their first time on a boat!” Pym calls after her but she’s already gone.

Pym takes a deep breath. She’s surprised that she’s still in one piece, that they made it here at all. She’s surprised that they are here. Back on a ship. With a bunch of Raiders running around above their heads. She was just adjusting to being back on land, now she finds herself back in the sea. Takes the bags out of the entranceway, the last thing she needs is someone tripping and breaking a nose. Then she turns back to the two behind her. She goes to Squirrel first, swinging her leg over the bench.

“Hand please,” she says, “left one.”

He thrusts it out and she takes it, finding the place where Dof pinched her. She finds his ear as well and pinches the spots. He yelps but she keeps holding her fingers there until he lifts his head from the bucket and looks around, the queasy look easing from his face.

“How’d you do that?” He asks.

“It’s not my first time on a boat,” she says, “go clean out the bucket.”

She walks over to where Lancelot is. Despite hurling into the bucket, he sticks his left hand out as she settles in front of him. She takes his hand and presses her fingers to the webbing between his pointer and thumb. He tilts his head so she can get to her ear. She digs her fingers in but he doesn’t make any noise. Because of course he doesn’t. She holds her fingers and keeps her fingers there for a while. For a moment she thinks that he might not have worked.

“Do you feel better?” She asks. He says nothing, “less nauseous,” she elaborates.

“Yes,” he says.

When he raises his head, he’s still pale and doesn’t look nearly as in control of himself as she’s used to seeing. It’s the boat, she knows it’s the boat. For the first time since they set out together, she feels truly guilty. Does dragging him onto the boat count in the same way as murdering her village? She doesn’t think so, but it’s a cruel thing none the less. She’s told herself every time she scolds him that she doesn’t want to be cruel. That it makes her no better than the rest of them. That it dishonors the people who do matter. But those are things she tells herself. She feels them but not like this.

“I’m sorry I forced you onto the boat,” she says, “I didn’t want anyone else to die because of the Paladins,” she looks at him, “I didn’t think we could wait any longer and I didn’t want to leave you behind to get killed.”

He looks at her quietly for a long moment. She can’t read his face. She’s gotten somewhat decent at reading people but maybe he just doesn’t feel strongly. Or maybe he’s in shock.

“I’m dead either way,” he says.

“No you aren’t,” she says, “you’re a Fey,” he gives her a look, “no-one’s just going to cut you down.”

“That would be the practical thing to do.”

“Then at least you’d die surrounded by your kin and going towards something good instead of being afraid on the docks,” she says. His look shifts to something incredulous and she wonders how he constantly seems to undermine her attempts at being kind, “do you feel less nauseous?”

He nods, his jaw scratching her wrist. She lowers her hand from his ear and her other from the webbing of his fingers. He stands up slowly. Even if the nausea is gone, his eyes close briefly as the ship rocks. It can’t be a pleasant thing to be back on the ship. The ship, the woods—she wonders if he’s had any place that he’s felt comfortable in. Or if it’s all just levels of discomfort. Probably the later, if she had to guess. It makes her think of her own lot, though the list of places she feels comfortable in at least has two entries. She feels comfortable on the ship. More than she thought she would, if she ever found herself back on it. But maybe her bar for familiarity is just low at the moment.

“I can’t believe you were taking arrows out of people here,” Squirrel says, “I can barely keep my feet under me,” he looks over at Lancelot, “you don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Lancelot says.

Squirrel looks at her and she shakes her head quickly. There was a reason that she didn’t want Squirrel to hear what Lancelot had been through. The ship part was arguably the tamest piece of what she had been told. But that story would lead to others and now is not the time. There’s a shred of innocence left in Squirrel and she respects the urge to protect it. They all look at Arthur as he comes down. Pym never thought she would be so relieved to see a human. He smiles at the three of them but she can see the look in his eyes. When the Red Spear comes down holding a length of chain, she knows what’s going on.

“No,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur moves when she tries to put herself in between them, “we can’t have him running around the ship.”

“Hey!” Squirrel moves and Pym’s heart leaps into her throat but Lancelot moves in front of him and pushes him towards Arthur who grabs the boy, “let me go!”

“Both of you stop,” Lancelot says.

The Red Spear walks up to him, if she’s at all intimidated she doesn’t show it. Her lips curls as she glances at the bucket he’s been throwing up in. Pym sees the intimidation tactic for what it is. Lancelot must recognize it to but he doesn’t show it. He keeps his eyes on her, no expression on his face. The pallor of his skin makes his marks stand out even darker. They both look terrifying and the fight between them would be vicious, but Pym doesn’t feel fear of either of them. Just fear for one of them.

“You can’t take him to the brig,” she says.

“Oh? Can’t I?” the Red Spear turns to her, “you’re giving orders on my ship now?”

“He’s sick!” She cuts in, finally moving past Arthur, “and he’s my patient,” she looks over, “you can chain him up back there. So I may monitor him.”

The Red Spear gives her a hard look and Pym feels herself wanting to cringe away from it. But that’s not the language the Raider’s respect. So instead she looks the Red Spear in the eye and stares her down. It’s a long moment when Pym’s sure she’s going to get slapped or beaten or thrown overboard. But the Red Spear just stares her down, then she curls her lips and turns back to Lancelot.

“You try anything with her and I’ll gut you,” she says.

He holds his wrists out for the manacles and she claps one on. It hisses against his skin like a brand, but he makes no show of the pain. She leads him to the back shadows and dragging the chain through the ring of steel and clapping it on his other wrist. Pym grips Squirrel as the boy flinches at the sound and smell. The Red Spear comes back to where she’s standing.

“Get your head on straight,” she says to Pym, “come on!” She bellows to Arthur and leaves.

“Here,” Arthur quickly hands her something, looking over his shoulder at where she chained Lancelot, “be careful blocking it. Don’t get burned yourself.”

He runs after the Red Spear.

Pym looks at the leather in her hands and then follows Squirrel back to where their friend is chained up, trying not to wish that they were back in the forest on their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are back with the group! I kept the Red Spear as that for now, her name reveal is going to come up soon. Rest assured I do have a plan for where this is going and what is going to happen.
> 
> Let me know what you think! I love your kudos and your reviews, the feedback is wonderful and helpful. You can also talk to me on my tumblrs! See you in the next chapter.


	14. Ash: Part 14

The day has gotten, surprisingly, worse.

Iron isn’t something he’s had to deal with in quite some time. He’s almost forgotten how it feels. But it’s not the kind of thing you ever truly forget. It makes a perverse sense that the Raiders would have these. Or maybe one of the other Fey did and gifted them. His thoughts get disoriented as his flesh burns. When he looks up at Pym and Squirrel though, his thoughts clear to not letting them touch them. Especially when Squirrel reaches for him. Pym’s faster though, thankfully.

“Hold on,” she says and grabs two of her knives. She works one under the manacle closest to her. That’s the thing about iron, once it isn’t in contact with Fey flesh, the burning stops. The metal cools. It’s just iron, “bend your legs,” she says and guides his hand onto his knee, “Squirrel, hold this steady,” she says. He moves his other hand onto his other knee. When she comes around she cuts through the fused flesh and gets her knife between his skin and the iron.

The smoking stops at least.

“Here I’ll do this one,” Squirrel says.

“No,” they say at the same time.

“Make sure the knife stays there. Don’t touch it,” Pym orders.

She carefully starts wrapping the cuffs with leather strips from somewhere. She’s careful as she does it, going slowly to make sure she doesn’t dislodge anything. When she has most of one cuff done she pushes it up. It hurts against the burns but no new burn comes. She breathes out and continues to wrap around the cuff before she secures the edge. She turns to the other cuff and starts to wrap. She’s careful again, but they are on a boat. It rocks. Pym swears and snatches her hand back, just barley stopping herself from sticking her burned fingers in her mouth. She steadies herself and goes back to wrapping the cuff. She tucks in the edge and sits back on her heels. No new hiss of flesh on iron occurs and they all seem to exhale at the same time.

“Don’t move,” Pym says to both of them and gets up.

It’s not the first time he’s sat surrounded by the smell of his own flesh. Instead of focusing on the past being thrown in his face at every turn, he focuses on his annoyance about it. Not just in what is happening but in how, wherever he is, Brother Salt is probably laughing at his good work continuing. It’s always easier to focus on his anger. It’s what has gotten him through most thing, no matter how Father told him it was a sin. Better to be a useful, necessary sin than pious and dead. It’s easier to focus on his anger and feelings of being right than to focus on the pain in his wrists or the sinking feeling that his gallows march has now really jumped forward. He sees Squirrel move forward and hold up his hand to stop him.

“I’m being careful,” Squirrel lies.

“I don’t think you know the meaning of the word,” he says, “stop trying to touch them. Pym told you not to move.”

“She told you too,” he says and looks down, “why do you always take her side?”

He opens his mouth to tell the boy he’s wrong and then considers it. They have agreed more often than not, at least when it comes to Squirrel. It’s not much, considering agreeing seems to amount to not letting charge headfirst into danger, but it’s more than he usually agrees with people about mundane things. 

“I don’t, we just agree in keeping you alive,” he says.

“You’re lucky you do and I haven’t pulled rank,” he says, shifting so he’s sitting next to him, “Sir Gawain knighted me before you found me,” he says, “it was his last act before passing into the twilight, so I think it counts.”

He sees the misgivings Squirrel tries to hide. He thinks of Gawain and his bravery. How even if he opened the door, it was Squirrel who got him through. Would he have been as receptive to another adult? Did it matter? The kind of cleverness and bravery Squirrel showed isn’t something that can be taught. Besides when he thinks of the Fey’s fighting skills, he wouldn’t really stake a knighthood on those. He’s only ever seen them win fights though cleverness.

“It must,” he says, “your friend did not seem like the type to do such a thing lightly.”

“He wasn’t,” Squirrel says perking up, “so you’re lucky I didn’t.”

“Isn’t learning to listen a part of knighthood?” Squirrel shrugs, “you may want to check.”

Pym comes back holding a stone bowl that smells sharp and crisp and a length of fabric. She takes his wrist and starts to apply the poultice, then careful wraps the bandages around his wrist. She repeats it with the other, wrapping outside of the burn. As long as his skin keeps out of contact with the iron it should be alright. When she’s done he can move his hands off his knees, nothing burning more. The poultice helps, at the very least it takes the burning away.

“Let me help,” he says.

She looks at him and then offers her hand. He spreads the stuff along the burns on her finger and the edge of her palm. It’s not as deep but it doesn’t take much for iron to eat into Fey flesh. He wraps the bandages around, careful that they won’t dislodge. He can’t hear any fighting but they’re in a ship full of Raiders. And she’s already had to patch him up. He secures the end and gives her back her hand.

“Thank you,” she says.

For a moment they are all silent.

“So, how are we going to get him out?” Squirrel asks.

Pym looks between them. It takes him a moment to realize that Squirrel is serious and Pym isn’t shooting the idea down. It’s ludicrous for many reasons. Not the least of which is the fact that they are on a boat. Even if he could get off of it in a way that wouldn’t mean certain death, he doesn’t know how he would do that without abandoning Goliath. It’s sentimental and foolish and he can hear Father rebuking him for wasting his time on such things. But the idea of leaving the horse fills him with dread. Especially for something as stupid as saving his own life. Not to mention running would mean leaving behind Squirrel and Pym. He remembers the last time he thought he left Squirrel behind. It’s not an experience he’s anxious to repeat.

“You aren’t,” he says. They both look at him. He doesn’t know who he should look at so he focuses on his wrists, “you were right. It’s better to die here.”

He’s not kin with the Fey. He’s not kin with anyone really if he thinks about it. He accepted his role as an outsider a long time ago, but then he still allowed himself the foolish hope that one day he would be good enough to feel His Grace. Even if that came after his death and his penance in the eternal hellfire. That was a lie. He knows that now. If there was ever any truth to it, he turned his back on it when he cut down the Pope’s prized Trinity Guard. He can’t say she was right about the kin part. But as for the rest of it, he’d rather be killed by his own kind than cut down by the Paladins.

“You’re not dying,” Pym says and gets to her feet.

“Do you want to die?” Squirrel asks.

He sees Pym stop, but she doesn’t try to silence the boy. He wishes that she would. He doesn’t have a good answer for the question. He’s never been someone whose sought death out. Not after all he’d been told about being demon-born and what awaited him on the other side. He had hoped that doing Father’s work might save his soul. Or help him get on the Road. But in the end he also knew he was destined for hellfire. His Holy Word said so. But his training taught him not to fear death. That it was noble to die for his Brothers. That if he died in the Lord’s service he would be a martyr. Martyrs were Saints, they were his Chosen. He was never foolish enough to think he was Chosen like that, but he could be a martyr. He could sacrifice himself to protect others.

“I want to answer for my crimes,” he says.

“That’s not an answer,” Squirrel replies, “it’s a yes or no question.”

“It’s not,” he says.

“Yes it is,” the boy replies.

“Yes I want to die,” he says as his patience wears thin.

“Are you just saying that because I’m making you answer me?”

“Yes.”

Squirrel looks monetarily smug and he rests his head back, wondering how one boy can be simultaneously so infuriating and endearing. Squirrel makes him both regret the days when the young ones would run from him and long for them desperately. He makes him think of the boys that he grew up with, the ones who were brave and good and took all of their secrets to the grave. Dying would also get him off the cursed ship. It would be the logical thing. He was lucky, as a boy, that Father took a chance on him. Instead of killing him like the others. He does not expect the world to be so kind a second time. Nor does he expect he’s capable of proving his usefulness. Not without also proving himself to be a monster.

“Do you want to die?” Pym asks him this time.

“I don’t know,” he says.

She looks at Squirrel and jerks her head. Squirrel opens his mouth to protest and she gives him a look. It’s an odd thing to watch them have a silent conversation. Especially since the boy can’t seem to shut up around him. He makes a noise of disgust though and gets to his feet, moving to the stairs and further out of ear range. Pym comes closer to him. He wishes that he had a clearer answer. He misses having a clearer answer. Or maybe what he’s wanted just has never been as important as what other people want. Maybe it still isn’t and no-one has informed him.

“For what it’s worth,” Pym says, “I think there’s been enough death.”

“I killed them,” he points out.

“Yes, I recall,” she snaps but catches herself before she starts yelling, “but your death won’t bring them back,” she says, her eyes moving across his face, “you could help us. Even without telling us what you know about them—“

There’s an odd feeling bubbling in his guts. He thinks he may be sick again. He doesn’t know why it hasn’t occurred to him that he could be used for information against his Brothers. It makes logical sense. He’s not one of them. He’s not one of the Fey. But somehow he’s wound up back on a boat being asked about secrets he can use to save his own skin. He’s not a scared boy though. Not anymore. He’s seen too much of the world to be that. He’s saved he next boy, as many times as he can.

“You should execute me and take some peace from that,” he says, meeting her gaze, “I can’t help you in any other way.”

She looks at him for a long moment and again he wishes that he was back in that simpler time. Maybe he is still a coward, somewhere deep inside. Pym straightens up and turns at the sound of a commotion happening as a Raider stumbles in, clutching the place where his eye used to be.

“Horns on a ship,” he snarls, “blasted Fey. Where’s the healer?”

“I’m here,” she says, her voice steady and confident, “Squirrel go back there. Don’t look.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Squirrel says but comes over to where he’s sitting and drops down next to him, “there’s no girls with the Paladins right? That doesn’t sound so bad.”

He finds he has no answer for that.

Thankfully Squirrel seems content to be quiet.

He can only hope it will last as long as it takes them to cut his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone anonymously drew a lovely piece of fan art that's on my
> 
> [tumblr](https://planetsam.tumblr.com/post/625443219121045504/well-hello-there-i-got-inspired-by-your-fic)
> 
> . It's beautiful and I'm so honored that it was inspiring to you. If my work inspires fan art/gifs please let me know!
> 
> I'm in the path of a hurricane so I might vanish for a few days if my power goes out but let's all cross our fingers that doesn't happen.
> 
> Feedback is love! That also includes constructive criticism. I'm always afraid I've taken us too far off course or characters aren't acting like themselves and I would love a chance to correct that. Thank you for all of the comments. Even just dropping a short line or sending me a message on Tumblr means the world to me. I'll see you in the next chapter!


	15. Ash: Part 15

Pym misses her convictions.

She misses knowing her heart. Even in muddied situations. Nimue never made things clear, but Pym knew she was a good person. She doesn’t know if that’s true of Lancelot. She thinks he was at one point and maybe he has a chance to be again, but she doesn’t know if that’s enough. Right now she looks at him and just sees confusion. But she’s not foolish enough to say he shouldn’t be feared. He should. It feels like her entire life is somehow long gone and freshly burned, all at the same time. Most of the people she sees on the ship are from other Clans. There’s so few Sky Folk. So few of all the different Folk.

The grief in her heart, the grief on all of their faces, all of it should make up her mind.

She doesn’t understand what stops her.

She loves Squirrel, she understands him, his life is worth a lot to her. But that’s not it. She can’t say if saving one life balances out ending so many others. And Squirrel is hers. Saving one life of one Folk won’t make the others hate him less. It doesn’t balance out their grief. How could it? She can’t pity him either. His beginnings were horrible, but it doesn’t change what he did. It doesn’t change the man that he is. It’s not enough of an explanation to justify his actions. There just is no justification. Maybe if he was fully on their side and willing to help—but he doesn’t seem to be there yet either. She saw the look he gave her at the prospect of telling her their secrets. Even though using them against the Paladins had been alright in the moment back in the woods. But the act of telling them to former enemies, somehow that crosses the line.

“The look on your face says I can gut him,” The Red Spear says as she takes a deep breath of the cool air on deck. Her words plunge ice into her heart and she turns, “relax. I didn’t send anyone to cut his throat. I want to do that myself.”

Pym understands that urge. Of course the woman next to her would actually do it. Pym thinks if it came down to it, she could. Or she hopes she could. She’s managed to make it this far without murdering anyone, she’s not sure how much longer she’ll get to keep that shred of innocence.

“I know I’m weak,” Pym says.

“Don’t expect me to disagree.”

“I wasn’t,” she shakes her head, “he’s a terrible person.”

“Everyone’s terrible,” the Red Spear says, “he’s a traitor, that’s worse,” Pym nods, “but you don’t want him dead,” the Red Spear shakes her head, “you know if he kills you it’ll be your own fault,” Pym nods, “but you don’t want him dead?”

“I don’t know!” She says finally, her frustration bubbling up, “I should—“

“I didn’t ask what you should, I asked what you wanted,” Pym shrugs and fumbles for the answer. The Red Spear rolls her eyes, “no wonder you don’t know,” something glints in the Spear’s eyes and she turns, walking down the steps.

“Wait!” Pym tears after her, “I didn’t—“

It takes the Spear several steps to cross to where Lancelot is sitting, grab his hair and wrench his neck back. Pym wants to call her bluff, but she knows that this is no such thing. She’s not bluffing. Lancelot knows it too. She sees his eyes close. His lips move and she realizes he’s praying. Betrayed by everything, he’s still praying. To a God that would see all of them burned. The Red Spear rolls her eyes like she can’t stand hearing the nonsense either and presses the flat of the blade to his throat, choking off his air. She looks at Pym and turns the blade so the edge is back against his skin.

“Well?” The Spear asks, “easy enough.”

“Stop!” Pym barely recognizes her own voice. It’s the tone that she uses on the Raiders when they’re squirming, “I don’t want him dead.”

They both look at her. Then the Red Spear shrugs and removes her knife, taking care to leave a long, shallow cut. Pym looks at her, at the smugness on her face and realizes the Red Spear knew all along. The relief shifts to embarrassment as the Red Spear saunters over.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” She claps Pym on the back, “if it’s any consolation, it was one of the Red Robed bastards who struck Dof down. Not him,” she hooks her thumbs into her belt, “I’ll leave you to your patient.”

It’s some combination of another clap and the relief that makes her drop onto the bench. Her earlier guilt seems to be erased by the relief she feels after being faced with the prospect of his throat being cut. Faced with the prospect, even dealt by one who deserves to kill him, the idea of him being dead makes her stomach turn. And her stomach isn’t weak. Not anymore. When she lowers her hands she finds the adrenaline is humming through her so hard they are trembling. Her hands haven’t trembled since—well, actually quite recently, if she think about it. And somehow all of them seem to do with Lancelot. Pym’s told herself over and over that she’s used to being friends with dark, strange people that no-one likes, but Nimue was never this infuriating.

“You shouldn’t have stopped her,” are the first words out of his mouth as she kneels down.

“I thought we talked about you learning to have a conversation,” she says. He looks away. It’s odd how being chained up seems to shrink him. It’s only when she’s this close that his size becomes apparent, “I don’t want you dead,” he glances at her, “even if you don’t say anything about your Paladins. I don’t know why since you’ve been using everything against them—“ he looks away again and she understands why the Red Spear rolls her eyes so much, “but I can respect it.”

“No-one else will,” he says.

“Then I’ll just have to stop the next person from cutting your throat,” she says, “tilt your head up,” she blots at the cut, “I’m sorry you got this.”

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“If I hadn’t seen your back I wouldn’t believe that,” she says, “you should try to keep your blood inside you for more than a day.”

He says nothing but the look he gives her is plain enough, but Pym’s not buying it. She’s realized that if if the world doesn’t cut his skin, he does it himself. Whether it’s for his God or so he has something to direct the fire towards or some warped combination of both, fed to him by the Paladins, she can’t say.

“Why don’t you want me dead?” He asks finally, something heavy in his voice.

“I don’t know,” she says, “I don’t want to dishonor the ways I was raised in,” she folds her hands, “I don’t want the world to be as terrible as I was always told it was,” she sighs, “you saved Squirrel, so that counts for something.”

He seems to agree, or at the very least he doesn’t object in his usual way. It counts but it’s not enough, it doesn’t undo anything. Hearing that he wasn’t the one who killed Dof doesn’t change anything either. She realizes that every small thing doesn’t make up for what he did, it never will. She doesn’t know why she keeps straining like she will hear the thing that undoes everything. One life doesn’t matter the same as another. People are not exchangeable. Not like that. She almost wishes that they did. But guilt churns in her stomach because that means someone’s life is worth the same as her parents. Her friends. And she can’t say that.

“It makes sense to kill me,” he says finally.

“Oh now you want to start making sense,” she says, “you have superb timing.”

Surprise makes his eyebrows shoot up, he looks almost comically young. His need for the hood makes more and more sense, the longer she sees him without it. She doesn’t mean to laugh. Truly she doesn’t. It’s inappropriate given their circumstances and the barely dry blood on his throat. But seeing the figure she thought would haunt her dreams for the rest of her days look shocked at her with no underlying urge to kill her is able to draw a laugh. Even out of her. She catches her lip in a futile effort to stop herself.

“I’m sorry, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you look surprised,” she says.

He holds her gaze for another moment and then looks away but she sees the unmistakable twitch of his lips.

“It’s not a feeling I’m used to,” he admits.

“Of course not, that’s why it’s a surprise,” she says, “if you were used to it, it’d just be how you feel.”

He shifts his weight and she watches as he folds his legs into a crossed position, realizing that he’s getting comfortable. The night is taking a very strange turn. He’s sat in more or less one position since she bandaged his wrists. She looks down to make sure everything is alright on that front and it seems to be. At the very least the bandages and wraps are holding.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you before,” he says after she stands up.

She doesn’t turn around and somehow that makes it easier.

“I’m sorry as well, for assuming,” she says.

“I’m not loyal to them anymore.”

She tightens her fist in her skirt until the pain makes he open her hand. She has to remember her burns. She doesn’t know what to say to that. She doesn’t want to condemn him, the smart thing to do would be to lie. But she finds herself unable to do that as well.

“I don’t believe you,” she says finally, “not yet, maybe not ever.”

She hears him shift his weight. She ignores the out that’s offered by the universe and continues to stand there with her back to the former monster. She thinks she hears him open his mouth before he finally speaks, but she doesn’t try to torture herself with guesses.

“Would betraying them prove it? Or just make me a traitor again?”

Damn him for throwing things back into grey and frustration. Irrationally she feels a stab of longing for moments ago, sitting in front of him watching him try not to smile.

“It would help keep us safe,” she says.

“That isn’t what I asked,” he says.

“I don’t know,” she admits, “it would help but the others—“

“I wasn’t asking about them,” he cuts in.

The oddest chill runs through her spine. It’s not a bad chill, not the heavy blocks and shards of ice that he usually seems to inspire in her. Just a chill that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It’s the same kind of chill she felt when Dof would smile at her, when he called her Minnow. Maybe it’s just the kind of chill she’s destined to always get when men look at her, even if only the dangerous one seem to be able to inspire her. The thought of him seeing the hairs on the back of her neck stand up is ridiculous and exactly the kind of thing he would do, so she turns around. His eyes catch hers before she’s even fully turned. She’s got height on him for once but that doesn’t stop her from raising her chin.

“Keeping the others safe would help,” she says, “you can’t undo being a traitor. But I don’t care if you betray them to show you’re loyal,” she toys with the edge of the bandage, “but if it means you let them kill you, then there’s no chance of it.”

He seems to consider her words and then ducks his head in some kind of acknowledgement before looking away. Pym watches but he doesn’t shift back to his uncomfortable position or do any of the things he seems prone to doing after conversations go poorly. He looks thoughtful instead. Or maybe he’s just torturing himself mentally. She doesn’t know. But at this point she figures mental torture might be the best of the options.

Her bar for progress is laughably low.

But at least there’s a bar at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! You have no idea how much the comments, kudos and screaming about them on tumblr has helped inspire me to keep writing. Which is great because I am also dying at the slow burn. But we are powering through together! See you in the next chapter!


	16. Ash: Part 16

The pull of gravity wakes him.

The gentle lull of the ship has become decidedly more violent. He can hear the waves against the hull and the swears of the Raiders. The nausea is back, along with the knot of panic. He pushes them both aside. The panic goes easier but he can deal with the nausea for longer. Suddenly being chained up is a much more pressing problem. The threat of being struck by debris is more present, but the threat of drowning follows on its heals. He pinpoints Pym and Squirrel with their scent, both still in their hammocks. It’s Squirrel who wakes first, sitting up and timing his exit with the rocking of the boat. Squirrel lands quieter than he thought and immediately looks over at him and then at Pym before coming over. He moves his hands away as the boy reaches for the chains.

“Don’t touch them,” he say.

He sees the flash of Pym’s hair as she sits up and looks around. She gets out of the hammock, shifting her weight with the rock of the boat. Out of the three of them, she has the most practice. She motions for both of them to stay where they are and makes her way up to the deck and peers out. He can’t see where she goes or what she sees, but a moment later she’s back. She moves faster, moving back into the shadows. There’s worry on her face.

“There’s no rain, no wind,” she says, “whatever’s happening out there, it’s not natural,” she drops to her knees by him and takes one of the shackles in her hands, looking at the mechanism. She hurries back to her healer bag and returns with a pair of pliers he doesn’t want to imagine inside a person. She finds the pin in one and pulls it out. Then she does the other. Both open. “I suppose they never thought we’d get past the iron.”

He wraps his hand in his cloak and puts both pins back into the shackles. The best case scenario is that he’ll be in them soon enough, but he’s glad to have his freedom as the boat lurches even more violently. It’s The Red Spear who sticks her head down and looks at the three of them and then motions them up to join the others on deck. He was only on deck for moments before, now he quickly takes in as much information as he can about the area. His eyes track over to where the horses are. It’s easy to pick out Goliath in his makeshift stall. Goliath is safe for now. So is the other horse. He turns to where Pym and Squirrel are standing.

“What’s happening?” Pym questions.

“Some kind of Fey magic,” Arthur says.

He focuses and breathes in the air. There’s Fey but it’s not that simple. It’s a tangle of Fey, of steel and ash and something else. Something like the smell of someone whose life is at the moment of leaving them. It’s a smell he’s familiar with, but even in vast quantities it’s never like this.

“This isn’t just Fey,” he says.

Where there was nothing there is suddenly a shimmer of black that solidifies and forms a woman. She wears a spectacular gown and a veil. Immediately she pulls it off.

It’s Sister Igraine.

But it’s not, not in the way that he’s used to seeing her. When she went by another name. She’s dressed in black that whips around in an invisible wind. The veil is pushed back and her hair is free and wild. He remembers the nun who chafed against the veil. Her attention is upward as she looks through the sky. There’s a crack and then lightening strikes down. Except it’s not natural lightening and what it deposits is a bellowing wizard who reeks of booze and magic and the salt of sweat and tears. He shoves himself to his feet, using the Sword as his cane. Sister Igraine gives him a look of utter disgust as she pulls him up.

“Did we get lost?”

She looks around and the wild power breaks. For a moment she looks young and free. It’s a shocking change, from any way that he’s seen her.

“Brother.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says as she gathers up her skirts and runs to her brother’s embrace.

She’s different, he can see it. But he hides the look and embraces her easily. Like she hasn’t just landed on the deck of the boat in the midst of a magical storm. Merlin sways on his feet as he looks around at all of them. The Wizard’s gaze focuses on him first. He swears loudly. Loud enough for Morgana to turn and spot him as well.

“You,” she says, “what the hell are you doing here?”

She appears in front of him instantly, coalescing in a cloud of black. When she does her veil is back covering her face. When she flips it off, her expression is just as angry. He knew that she never wanted to be with the nuns. That was as clear as day. But he chalked it up to a lack of faith since she came to them so late. She hadn’t been molded, her faith hadn’t been tempered. Now he can see the outright hatred written all over her face. She hid it well.

“He’s with us now,” Squirrel pipes up.

“On Father Carden’s orders maybe,” she says. There’s a glimmer of something in her eyes that he doesn’t like, “did you wonder why you haven’t heard from him?”

“He’s not taking orders from him,” Squirrel says again as Pym pulls him back, “he saved me.”

He knows why he hasn’t gotten orders, but the look on her face begs him to ask why.

“Why?” He asks.

“Because he’s dead,” she says. She looks around apologetically at Pym, “so’s Nimue. She got shot off a bridge by Sister Iris,” she focuses on him again with a look of complete loathing, “but at least she beheaded your precious Father before she died,” Morgana spits.

The ship is still but it also feels like the deck has plunged into the waves. He knew the moment he ran that he would only ever see Father again if he was about to be executed. But there was some comfort in knowing he was out there. Even if it was to hunt him down. The idea that he’s dead makes Lancelot’s head spin. The world suddenly feels vast and empty. Like some tether to his past has been cut and he is now hollow as a bird’s bone. It’s been drilled into him again and again that he needs to be in control of his emotions but all his control sounds like Father’s voice. And it echoes in his heart that his voice is never going to be heard again. That voice exists only as a memory. As ephemeral as the Grace that has always eluded him.

He’s destined for the hellfire, he’ll never see Father again.

It takes a moment for the pain to register.

When he looks down there’s a knife buried in his side. When he looks up, Arthur is staring back at him. His eyes drag across several horrified faces but they settle on Pym. Both her hands are open, but when he looks back at the handle of the knife he remembers it well. It’s one of hers. Morgana’s vicious look is a sharp contrast to the one on her brother’s face. He tries to figure out what happened. He has a vague, vague recollection of promising not to get himself killed. Of trying to find a way to help. Getting stabbed is not exactly in the plan. Arthur has reason to stab him, he supposes. But it’s still a shock. It’s even more of a shock when Arthur hauls him up and shoulders his weight as his knees buckle.

“Well throw him overboard or take him down, but lets not gawk while he dies.”

“I want to watch,” Morgana says.

“This isn’t a circus,” The Red Spear snaps.

Arthur hauls him down the stairs. He’s surprised Pym follows, but he guesses that she has to keep the show up. Arthur gets him onto the table but keeps him upright. He looks at him questioningly. It doesn’t make sense that Arthur squeezes his shoulder. But maybe the man just doesn’t want him to die as the pathetic creature he is. Arthur’s brow draws together and he looks over his shoulder, tracking Pym’s movements as she hurries back over.

“What the hell did I just do?” He hisses.

“I can’t tell you that,” she says.

“What do you mean you can’t tell me that?” He drops his voice, “I just may have killed someone I thought we were trying to save.”

“Don’t ask me that,” she says. She probes the knife, “just hold him steady,” she glances up, “and close your eyes.”

“Close my—“ Arthur exhales sharply, “what—“ he stares at Pym for a moment, “alright fine.”

Arthur shifts his grip and He feels himself being held back against Arthur’s chest. He’s used to being spread out on tables and told to hold still. He looks down as Pym inspects her knife and realizes vaguely that there’s no blood. That when she tries to move it, his skin pulls. He’s healed. He vaguely realizes. There’s no gentle way to do it. Pym seems to realize it too. She braces her foot and looks up at him apologetically before she yanks the knife out and shoves a cloth full of dirt against the wound. He manages to get a hand free from Arthur’s grasp and clap it over the dirt, letting the earth heal the damage. It’s not enough to heal it entirely but it’s enough to make sure it’s not the thing that kills him. Pym looks over his shoulder and then grabs his hands.

The bandages are gone.

There’s just fine white ash on his skin.

“Can I open my eyes?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Pym says, flattening her hand against his stomach. Arthur opens his eyes, “he’ll be okay. Can you keep an eye on Squirrel? I need to finish and I don’t want him to see this,” Arthur looks at the both of them and then nods, “thank you.”

She watches him go and then her knees seem to weaken. She drops the cloth and grips the edge of the table.

“No-one saw,” she says, “I’m sure of it,” she shakes her head, “I didn’t know what else to do,” she swallows, “Arthur saw me and just finished it.”

Arthur seems to know how to do what is necessary. He has recognized that about him since the Mill. It doesn’t surprise him that the man would choose to spare Pym the guilt. He can’t even say for sure that Arthur wants to kill him. He’s had plenty of opportunity but he doesn’t. He hates the thought that a man like Arthur might understand his situation, might be sympathetic to him. It makes him feel uniquely guilty about how close he’s coming to killing him. About the part of him that wants to kill him still.

“You did the right thing,” he says.

“There is nothing right about this,” she replies.

He remembers that Father is dead. That the sword Father prized did it. The witch he failed to capture wielded it and the traitor he didn’t even know was in their ranks was also there. Father’s death reeks of his own failure. His back itches for penance he no longer has the right to. He needs guidance, he needs Father’s convictions back. He looks over at Pym who stares out at the deck.

“She’s not dead,” she says finally, like she needs to say the words aloud, “They said she fell,” she says, “she was shot and she fell. She could still be alive,” she brushes her hands down her front, like she’s wiping the thought off of her, “that wizard reeked of booze anyway. Who knows what he saw?”

The frantic energy changes her scent. He can see the misgivings on her face, like she is trying to convince herself of her own words. He’s seen people survive worse, he’s also seen less kill men. It’s not a sure thing either way. The only sure thing is that Father is dead and he has somehow produced the Fire without the kind of fuel he’s used to requiring. He watches Pym wring her hands again. If she keeps It up he knows that she’s going to hurt her hand. Covering hers with one of his own is a strange thing, but it seems like the best option in the given circumstances. She stiffens and looks at him.

“You’re going to open your other hand,” he says.

“Oh, right,” she shakes her head, “of course i—“

“She should have been dead a long time ago, you’ve both managed to survive,” he says.

“She’s powerful,” Pym says, “much more powerful than I am. It shouldn’t be a problem,” she tries to smile, “he doesn’t know her. He wasn’t her father in any real way,” she follows his gaze as Squirrel appears at the top of the stairs, “what’s wrong?” Pym asks immediately.

“I think I killed Nimue,” Squirrel says.

“You couldn’t have, she’s not dead,” Pym says.

“I taught that girl how to shoot,” Squirrel whispers, “I didn’t know—“

Pym drops his hand to wrap her arms around Squirrel as he bawls into the front of her dress. Squirrel clings to her and he feels his stomach turn. Not hurting the little ones was always a lie, but seeing it thrown in his face reignites the guilt. Squirrel weeps long enough for it to recede, long enough for him to wonder if he’s crying over Nimue or if everything has just caught up to him. He can remember Father teaching him about the shame and selfishness of his emotions. But when he thinks about it now, he remembers a half forgotten voice of a long forgotten face, telling him to learn to temper them. That it was important so one day when he was older and stronger, he wouldn’t accidentally burn the village down. The two voices both belong to the dead and jumble around in his mind. It should be simple to separate them but it’s not. For the first time he’s seen, Squirrel cries until he looks very much like a boy. A child. Which he is. But seeing him rubbing his eyes and sniffling makes him seem so much smaller.

“You didn’t know,” Pym says again, “Nimue would never blame you.”

“Do you hate me?” Squirrel asks, “please don’t hate me—“

“Of course i don’t hate you,” Pym says, “I don’t hate Lancelot, how could I hate you for something you didn’t know?” Squirrel thinks for a moment and then looks fractionally less upset.

“She was always a zealot,” He says finally, “she would have found another way.”

“You weren’t really waiting for orders were you?” Squirrel asks.

“No,” he says, “I wanted to know what she knew.”

“That he’s dead.”

It’s still crippling to hear but not as stunning as before. He nods. He doesn’t expect sympathy from either of them. From anyone really. Paladins lives were always dedicated to the after life anyway. Dying honorably in service to His Glory was their greatest hope. There were never any tears for the dead, just prayers to speed along their journey. Did he die honorably? He doesn’t know what that means anymore. He doesn’t know if he should mourn the man who burned down his home and his family, who warped him into the twisted thing he is now.

He just knows that he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was confusing! Part of it was intentional but from the comments it seems that I went too far, that’s the problem of the POV character getting stabbed. I promise the next chapter will clarify!
> 
> Well that escalated quickly! I wanted to do justice to Morgana and the anger she has after her time in the convent surrounded by people like Lancelot but also holding up her own beliefs. Basically I have plans.
> 
> As always feedback is love and helps me be inspired tokeep writing! I love hearing from everyone, so very much. It's so gratifying to know people are enjoying this so if you are please comment/like/yell with me on Tumblr! I'll see you in the next chapter


	17. Ash: Part 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the ESL people your confusion was completely warranted. On one hand I wanted things to be confusing because it was written from Lancelot's point of view, but I can see also that I made it too confusing. Everything is explained in this chapter but just in case you are concerned, Pym saw him starting to make Fire and went to hurt him so that he wouldn't burn the ship down. Arthur saw her hesitation and didn't want her to have to stab her friend, so he did. I didn't want anyone to be worried about going into this chapter not understanding the last one because of their English. Now onto the chapter!

She dreams that she kills him.

He dies with a look of surprise on his face, the same one he gave when she teased him. The knife that they’ve both used doesn’t go into his side, it goes into his heart. He dies before he hits the deck and the green fire she sees lapping his fingers erupts from everywhere and they all die. The ship doesn’t sink, it just settles on top of the water in a could of fine, white ash that gets whisked away by the waves.

The dream shifts and when she goes to stop him and Arthur takes the blade from her, Lancelot stops him this time. They all die the same way, in that blaze of green. Except he survives and he sinks down, trailing red. He drowns. She watched him sink and when he looks up it’s not his face but Nimue who stares back at her as the black depths swallow her whole.

Pym’s long since learned not to scream when she has a nightmare.

But she doesn’t go back to sleep either.

She realizes that Lancelot is gone. They’ve only been sleeping in proximity for a handful of nights, but she notices his absence immediately. She makes sure Squirrel is still asleep. Reasoning he’ll be alright for a little bit, she slips out of her hammock. Just to be safe she tucks the amulet in with him and then goes to look for Lancelot.

Pym finds him on the deck, with the horses.

She doesn’t know why she is hovering. He’s fine, physically speaking. Emotionally he seems as bad as usual, maybe a bit worse. She can tell herself that she doesn’t want him to accidentally burn the ship down or that she needs the reassurance that stabbing him didn’t kill him. But neither of those things are true. She likes being tucked into her familiar corner of the ship. It’s the only familiar thing she has these days. But he’s out wandering about and so she finds herself doing the same.

“You’re following me,” he says.

“Figured I’d turn the tables,” she replies. He gives her a sharp look and she tries to smile, “I wanted to see if you wanted the company,” he looks away, “or I can go back down.”

He’s silent for a moment as though considering her words.

“Stay,” he says finally.

She nods. He must have visited Goliath already, she’s surprised to see him with their other traveling companion. Goliath though raises his head and lips at her braid playfully. She offers her hand instead. Lancelot glances at him and he pulls his head up but she scratches his nose.

“It’s alright,” she says, “I’ve been handled by worse,” she glances at him, “couldn’t sleep?” He says nothing, “neither could I. I tried to but I just kept seeing myself stabbing you or Arthur doing it but in the wrong place and it somehow killing you.”

“It wouldn’t have been a terrible way to die,” he says.

“It would have been terrible for me,” she says.

He looks over at her sharply again. Pym is no stranger to frustrating people with her knack for stating the obvious, but he doesn’t seem frustrated. She supposes that will come soon enough. He seems surprised though. Again. The image of him trying to smile overlays nicely with the dream of him dying because of her. She wants to apologize and explain, but it’s hard to explain when you can’t say why you did something. She knows everyone on the ship will think that Arthur did it to protect his sister or for honor or something. No-one will be mad about it. Only upset that he didn’t die.

“I couldn’t think of another way—“ she starts, “I’m sorry though.”

“Don’t be,” he says, “you did what needed to be done.”

“Arthur did,” she corrects, “but you got hurt,” she adds. When he raises an eyebrow she can’t help but roll her eyes, “yes I know you’ve been hurt before, but like I said I wanted to get through a day where you kept your blood inside you. I thought that was possible.”

“But a wizard, an undead nun and a magical sword threw it off,” he says dryly.

It draws a smile out of her and softens the look on his face, just fractionally.

He’s almost right. Those things certainly contributed. Though really it was his emotional reaction that dashed her dreams of not seeing his blood for one day. She can’t blame him for that. It’s horrifying when she thinks about it and realizes how neatly it all fits together. He’s been harming himself or getting hurt constantly. And that seems to be the only control he knows. But finding out the closest thing he had to family has been murdered, well that’s enough to undo anyone’s control. Especially if they aren’t injured. The marks on his back, that evil uncomfortable shirt, all of it seems to be enough and his life seems built around getting hurt worse if he’s going to be upset enough to lose control. He said he couldn’t make fire independently, but a few strips of muslin seems like a paltry amount. She doubts that he’s ever tried to do it.

For all his training, he’s untrained in the way that could truly kill them all.

“There were boys in my village who were horrible to me and Nimue, but I get sad when I think of them being dead,” she says. The soft look vanishes and he turns his head away. She can see that she’s pressed a nerve, but sometimes pressing is the only way to get the knot worked out, “I wouldn’t judge you for being sad about him being dead.”

“There’s no reason to be sad,” he says, “he went to our Heavenly Father.”

“Our what?” He stiffens. She frowns, “you don’t tell us what you believe in,” she says, “just that killing us is God’s work. You were going to tell us about Saint Paul but—“ she waves a hand, “other things happened.”

“You don’t care about my beliefs,” he says.

“I don’t know your beliefs,” she retorts, “I’ve only seen them being used as a justification for pain and death,” she says, “and yes it’s enough to ‘not care’ but we’ve got to start somewhere,” she continues, “besides I’ve seen my own beliefs used to justify things I don’t agree with,” he glances at her, “so tell me why there’s no reason to be said, even though—“ she trails off. He turns around and looks at her, “even though you clearly are,” she finishes.

Lancelot looks at her quietly for a long moment. Long enough for her to take several breaths, long enough for her to wonder what on earth she’s doing asking about his beliefs. It’s easier to talk about those than it is to talk about the fact that she has no problem with the Paladin being dead. With all of them being dead. Because then she’s going to have to reckon with the fact that there’s one she doesn’t want dead. He isn’t the only one who wonders if what they’re doing makes them a traitor. Hers is just appropriately weaker than his. Pym’s never been one for the adventures that she’s been on. Her stakes have never been high. If she dies it’s not cause for a wizard to go mad or for long forgotten impossible Fey Fire to appear. She has to keep things in perspective.

“Our bodies don’t matter, it’s our souls,” he starts finally. 

It’s as grim a religion as she would expect. Even the hopeful bits are full of punishment and suffering. He’s right, everything seems to be about what comes after death. Like life is set up to be one big game that you either win or face eternal damnation. It seems like a horrible way to live. It does shed light on Lancelot’s thought process though. If her entire life was centered around the afterlife, she doesn’t know if she would think differently. She’s glad it’s not something she has to consider. It also strikes her how his voice turns when he talks about it. She isn’t sure she’s ever heard something so close to affection in his tone. It’s unsettling to hear, so she tries instead to focus on what he’s saying. Instead of how he’s saying it. She’s grateful for Goliath being so close. At least it gives her something to do with her hands.

“I don’t know how killing in the name of your God can be different from killing in any other way,” she says finally, “doesn’t everyone who justifies killing justify it as defense?”

“Everyone isn’t the Pope,” he says.

“Well we can be thankful for that at least,” she says. He frowns, “his guards did try to kill you twice,” he shrugs, “you can’t really think you deserve that—you protected a child. They weren’t hunting you when you weren’t doing that. Doesn’t that seem wrong to you?”

He opens his mouth and then presses his lips together. 

But his hesitation is the answer.

Lancelot never seems to hesitate when he’s sure. There was a time not too long ago when she would have fled at the sight of a Raider, not been relieved. Life seems determined to test what she thinks of as comfortable. When she was out in the world, she had the strangest urge to go back and yell at all of the people who kept her sheltered from it. Even if they were trying to protect her. She wanted them to know how wrong they were. It’s odd to think that if things had turned out differently she may have lived and died in the same place. Without ever setting a foot elsewhere.

“It’s not a crime to admit you were wrong,” she says finally, “it doesn’t make you faithless or weak,” he doesn’t seem to agree, “and that is what you get for being surrounded by men.”

“What?”

“Women can admit when they’re wrong,” Pym says, “I can admit that I was wrong about the Raiders. You can’t admit that they were wrong to hunt you because you chose to save a boy.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

“Or you can’t admit it,” she replies.

His eyes narrow but she doesn’t feel the same kind of fear she did. It’s helped a little by the color she can see starting to stain his cheeks. Things in his life seem to fall into the same odd few categories. Those that offend his skewed morals, those that are hard to think about in relation to his skewed morals, things that are tolerable and women. It’s almost funny. Almost. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen a Fey who has no idea what to do with a woman. From everything he’s told her his entire religion seems to look down on them in particular. The root of evil. How no-one told them it was preposterous is beyond her. Then again, from what she’s seen of men it makes sense.

“That’s not the only reason—“ he stops as she tries not to laugh, “I know their secrets.”

“But you won’t tell them.”

“They don’t know that,” he says.

“Have they not spoken to you before?”

“Not willingly.”

She refuses to feel pity for him. Or to justify his actions with his sad story. That won’t bring back any of the Fey he’s killed, no more than it will bring back his own long dead family. Though if she was faced with the choice of talking to a religious zealot who thought everything she did was an affront to god or talking to Goliath, she would pick the horse. So she does and she turns to give him her full attention.

“We believe that when you die you pass into the twilight,” she says, “we all go to the same place. We all change in the same way.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees him move closer. Goliath is clever and tilts his head. Like this is something they’ve done a lot. Lancelot doesn’t even need to look to find the spot the horse likes.

“All of you?” He asks after a moment.

“Everyone,” she says, “that’s why we believe all Fey are brothers. Or sisters,” he looks down, looking almost disappointed, “oh please, becoming one with us can’t be nearly as bad as ‘burning in eternal hellfire’. We believe loved animals go there too, so Goliath would be there,” she looks at him, “tell me that doesn’t sound awful.”

He sighs.

“It doesn’t sound terrible.”

She figures that’s close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always feedback is love! Your comments/Kudos/tumblr mentions are so wonderful and helpful and really keep me going. Feedback is love, come scream about cursed on my [tumblr](https://planetsam.tumblr.com) or my other one [tumblr](https://venomrps.tumblr.com) and I will see you in the next chapter!


	18. Ash: Part 18

Squirrel has stopped talking.

Not entirely, not on purpose, but the endless stream of chatter is absent. Despite spending nearly every moment praying for the boy to shut up or stay on topic, he feels himself worrying. The silence isn’t natural for the boy. He’s done several things to keep this from happening, and somehow once again this shadow of himself is quiet and miserable and in mourning on a boat that carries to him places unknown. The irony of the situation is not lost on him.

“You’ve stopped talking.”

Squirrel shrugs.

“I’ve never heard a Knight of the Fey be so quiet.”

It takes the boys brow a moment to furrow and realize the insult. But then it smooths out and he goes back to being sad and quiet. Usually Squirrel is the one who carries their conversations. Seeing Squirrel sitting there hunched over and silent makes it far more difficult. He’s never had a problem with the silence. He still prefers it. But he is not the boy next to him, drowning in his own guilt. Guilt that he doesn’t deserve, given he had no way of knowing. But it’s guilt he has, guilt he seems determined to carry. Because the boy is stubborn and brave and he’s not stupid enough to think that he can change his mind.

“You must be good with a bow if you can teach someone,” he tries again, “who taught you to shoot?”

“My father,” Squirrel mumbles.

Of course. The father that he was waiting for. The father that he killed. There’s no malice in Squirrel’s voice, no accusation, even though there’s every right to be. Squirrel just says it like a simple fact. It occurs to him that everything he asks the boy is going to go back to his past and be connected to the boy’s family or friends or someone in the boy’s village. He’s no stranger to saying things that others deem foolish, he’s learned not to speak unless necessary, lest he give himself away. But that doesn’t make speaking any easier. Especially not to someone whose family he murdered. The Abbot was right, he does see familiarity in the boy. Deep down he knows he never forgave the Paladins for what they did to his home, no more than he forgave himself for not dying with them. He just never anticipated that one day he would yearn for that forgiveness. Like he always yearned for His Grace.

“How did you know she was a—“ he frowns at the unfamiliar term.

“A zealot?” Squirrel nods, “her actions,” he explains. Squirrel looks disappointed, “I cannot sniff out people’s intentions,” he says, “though it would make life far easier.”

“Are you trying to tell a joke?” Squirrel asks, his brows drawing together, “you’re not good at it.”

He doesn’t think he was trying to tell a joke but the childish rebuke is better than the silence. Instead of sitting curled into himself Squirrel relaxes for the first time, just fractionally. But it’s a start. When Squirrel shifts so that he’s facing him, it feels like a victory. He tells himself that there was no point in making sure the boy was safe if he just winds up like him anyway. He’s in this now, he may as well be in it properly. It has nothing to do with affection for the boy. That would be a stupid thing to develop considering it’s only a matter of time before this all falls apart or the boy remembers to be mad at him properly. But somehow that doesn’t stop him from sitting there. Stubbornness has always been one of his faults.

“Did your father teach you how to shoot?” Squirrel asks.

“I don’t remember my father,” he says.

“That’s too bad,” Squirrel shrugs, “he probably did. Most boys learn around my age so you probably got taught,” he looks at the boy sharply, “they said I reminded you of someone. I think they were talking about you. So you were my age when you joined them.”

He follows his reasoning well enough, but its unnerving to hear. He’s starting to think that all of the Fey are like this. When they aren’t running for their lives anyway. Squirrel is evidence that some of them are like this when they are. He’s always held himself away from them, always preferring to fight them at a distance when possible. He’s a tracker, he’s meant to go ahead and leave the cleansing to the Paladins. Immediately he chastises himself for the thought. He leads the Paladins there but his hands are just as bloody. There’s no comfort in not seeing it. He causes their screams just as much. More, if he’s being honest with himself.

“Do you remember your mother?” Squirrel asks.

“Not really.”

“That’s too bad,” the boy looks down at the table, “am I going to forget my parents?”

“No,” he says sharply. Squirrel stares at him, “close your eyes,” he says. The boy does it. For the first time he can think that the boy is entirely too trusting, but the thought isn’t immediately followed by how easy it would be to kill him, “think of coming home and entering your house,” he says, “do you see the change in the light? Feel the change in the temperature? The smells?” He nods, “where are your parents?”

“My mother’s by the fire,” Squirrel says, “my father’s coming in behind me.”

“Go inside,” he says and waits a moment, “look around your home. What is your mother making?”

“Bread,” he says, “I can smell it.”

He lets Squirrel stay in the memory for a moment longer. Watching as he relaxes further at the comforting thought. That’s the thing though, memory is never perfect. Examining it too closely always seems to bring up the cracks. Or worse it will lead him to a bad memory.

“Open your eyes,” he says.

Squirrel does it instantly and looks around. For a moment all of the sadness is gone from his face. He looks like an innocent boy whose hardest trail is the people he chooses to associate with. Not that that seems to have changed. The guilt and sadness creeps into his eyes again but he seems to shoulder it a tiny bit better. His eyes are clearer when he looks at him. An odd sense of longing nestles in his chest. He’s been taught to hate the feeling, that it is another temptation sent to lure him from the Road. But there’s no-one to tell him that now. He lets the ache stay and tremble like a living thing. Squirrel finds comfort in home. He’s long since made himself forget his. He’s not jealous of the boy but he finds he aches for what he’s capable of remembering. The strength he draws from it.

  
“I remember them,” Squirrel says, “you should try. Close your eyes.”

“It’s been too long for me,” he says.

“You won’t know if you don’t try, I could help,” he says, “come on Lancelot.”

There’s a flash of black. He’s got no weapons but he stands up and turns, putting himself between the boy and Sister Igraine. Morgana. It’s madness how the two of them have wound up here, so far from where they were. But Morgana is suited to this place, far more than she was ever suited to the Faith. She pulls off her veil and looks him up and down.

“Go check on Pym,” he says to Squirrel, pushing him towards the deck, “don’t come back here.”

Morgana watches the boy go but doesn’t try to stop him. Whatever dark thing she’s become, it seems there’s some humanity left in her after all. She steps forward and he matches her, keeping the same measure of distance between them. He knew she did not believe like her Sisters, but he thought that she wanted to. He can see now that the frustration was not at herself but at the Church. And yet they’ve both wound up on the ship, irrevocably changed from the people who stood before God.

“Surprised you haven’t swam back to shore yet to find your Brothers,” she says, “or are you waiting to murder everyone here?” She tilts her head, “or do you not believe me that your precious Father Carden is dead?”

“I’m not here to murder anyone,” he says finally.

“You know I thought you couldn’t speak,” she says, as though he didn’t say anything, “not without being spoken to first,” they continue to circle each other, “now you’ve found your voice. I wonder what your victims would think of that.”

He has no retort. He knows what they would think of it. In the very near past he would say that she couldn’t truly speak to the dead, that they were burning in hellfire, but now he doesn’t have that assurance. Maybe she can speak to the dead. The smell of death hangs around her like another veil. She could be on him in an instant but she keeps circling. She’s toying with him, he realizes. Or she has a plan for him. Neither makes him feel better about the situation. But at the same time he doesn’t feel the yearning for death he’s used to feeling going into battle. If that’s what this is.

“So why are you here?” She asks. He says nothing and she vanishes and appears in front of him, veiled again. It seems to be a part of it, “that wasn’t rhetorical. Why are you here, Monk?”

The word smarts like it’s a blow. He’s had a thousand derogatory names, Monk is the most kind. It’s also a sharp reminder that he’s standing among the Fey. Most of the things that marked him as a Holy Man are gone. It won’t be long before his hair grows and his tonsure joins the rest of it. He never felt the Grace when he was getting those things, not the way his Brothers did. But he felt closer to God in those moments than he can remember. Morgana tilts her head like she’s about to strike. He would deserve worse.

“Why are you here?” She repeats, “Monk?”

“My name is Lancelot,” tears out of him, “I’m not a Monk anymore than you are a Nun. Why are you here?”

“For my brother,” she says instantly, because Morgana has always had her convictions. She drags her eyes across his face, “you’ll never make up for what you did to them. And they deserve better than being used for your flagellation. Especially those two,” something shows on his face because triumph glows in her eyes, “don’t get comfortable around them. If Nimue isn’t here to protect them, I will be.”

He doesn’t doubt it or her ability to do so. She gives him a last hard look and vanishes in that same, unsettling, ephemeral way. He’s used to knowing his enemy. He’s had the same one for long enough. He’s used to knowing how the world works. He was not expecting every facet to fall apart as quickly as it had. The timing of it is almost poetic. In these situations he would normally pray. For guidance, for strength, for any of it. But there’s no God here, maybe there never was. There’s nothing to ask for strength or guidance or direction.

“Lancelot?”

Despite his very clear instructions, Squirrel is back and he’s brought Pym. On her heels he can see Arthur, a hand on his blade. It seems odd to him that this man who should be back with his own kind is here protecting everyone. Because it’s the right thing to do, because of the woman he loved, because of something he doesn’t think he understands. But he’s here. With no promise of payoff. Arthur barely knows Pym and yet there’s no doubt in his mind that if it came to it, Arthur would throw himself in front of a blade for her.

“She’s back on the deck,” Arthur says. There’s a loud swear from the Red Spear, “you may want to get ready,” he says to Pym, “Morgana!” He calls after her and charges back up.

“You were to stay away,” he reminds Squirrel.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Squirrel says, “I’m the Knight, remember?”

Something relaxes in him at Squirrel sounding like a boy again. Over his head he catches Pym’s eye and the relief he feels is echoed back on her face. It’s just a moment but for the first time Lancelot feels as though things are as they should be.

Just for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! It's taken 18 chapters but Lancelot is starting to claim his identity. Slowly but if you look back on his chapters he's never referred to himself by his name. UNTIL NOW. That's just a fun little tidbit that everyone can celebrate with.
> 
> As always remember feedback is love! Your comments make my day, no matter if they're very appreciated constructive feedback or emojis that make me smile. I love it all. You're always welcome to come scream with me on my Tumblrs. Please let me know what you think and I'll see you in the next chapter!


	19. Ash: Part 19

“Here’s our destination,” Merlin says.

“That’s a lake. Are you mad?”

“Quite,” Merlin replies, “it’s still our destination.”

No-one notices as she peers over at the map spread out on the table. It’s lake alright. After all the things she’s seen, it’s not the strangest thing someone has suggested. She doesn’t doubt that Merlin would have ideas for where they should go, though he’s thought of as a traitor. But something about the prospect of following Merlin’s directions troubles her. Something about all of this troubles her. She finds herself anxious about leaving the ship. About leaving the Raiders. About going to a new home that seems vulnerable to the same things that cost her the last one. She feels almost queasy as she moves away from the conversation and over to where Squirrel and Lancelot are sitting. No-one wants either of them to listen to the decisions being made. Squirrel because he’s a boy. Lancelot because he’s Lancelot.

“Where are we going?” Squirrel asks.

“A lake,” she says. He frowns. She shrugs and looks back over at where the others are standing, “I don’t understand either,” she admits, “we shouldn’t be listening to him,” she looks back at Lancelot, “right?”

He seems surprised that she’s look at him for confirmation. Especially about Fey business. But she can see that the Folk who are around here are desperate. They want to go to a new home. They want off this ship. Lancelot is the only one whose mind is running along the same lines as her. Off this ship is another unknown. Another place that could be good or bad, but a place that will require yet another new beginning. She’s starting to wonder how many of those she has left in her. She can feel her temples aching with the prospect of it. She’s spent this entire time hoping for a new place to call home and now, assuming that Merlin is not about to send them all to their deaths, the prospect of it makes her feel sick.

“He would want you safe for Nimue,” Lancelot says, “Morgana wouldn’t let him speak otherwise.”

Shame churns in her gut. She knows he’s right but that makes her own hesitation even worse. Nimue sent these people to make sure they found their way to safety. She’s never given her a reason not to trust her. Or to doubt her. But when she looks at them all she feels is doubt. Morgana is beyond this world and Merlin has done horrible things to the Fey Folk. But a creeping little voice whispers that Nimue sent them and they will be accepted as they should be. It feels wrong. She cannot figure out why it feels that way but it does. It makes her feel like a bad subject and a worse friend. If Nimue is alive she thinks she’ll have to apologize. If she’s dead—she cuts off the thought. She is not dead. She’s sent these people ahead and because they don’t know her as well as Pym does, they just think she’s gone.

All of it feels unsettling.

She’s spent a long time being told the company she keeps is wrong, but in her heart she always knew what was right and what was wrong. Now things are not that simple, not anymore. If she puts aside what she should think and focuses on what she does think, she knows she trusts Morgana and Merlin to help for Nimue’s sake, she trusts them to do what is safest for the Fey Folk. She doesn’t trust that what’s safest for them is right for her. She feels different. Like she’s not entirely Fey anymore. They’ve all been through horrible things, none of them are the same they were when they had their homes. But she feels removed even from that. She doesn’t feel the same desperation she sees on their faces to find somewhere and put down roots. Rather she feels as though she should feel that way. But it’s like looking at a cutting of a plant and being unsure if it is even capable of growing them.

“What’s wrong?” Squirrel asks, “you’ve got that look on your face.”

  
“I don’t have a look on my face,” she says automatically. The two of them trade glances, “I don’t,” she insists, “I’m just not sure about living in the middle of a lake.”

“There’s probably an island,” Squirrel points out.

“Yes I know,” she says, “it doesn’t change anything.”

She feels bad for snapping at him but she supposes it will have to be added to her list of things. It’s getting long. She’s used to being someone that people think of as objectively good. Now she feels wrong. She hears the quick exchange of whispers and then turns to see Squirrel getting up and slouching off. She doesn’t want to snap again but she also doesn’t want to talk. Squirrel is also a boy. She’s grateful for anyone who understands how she feels, even just a little. But he’s a child. No matter how the world treats him, she’d like him to keep that for a little while longer. Lancelot looks at her and she smiles.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Why don’t you want to go to the island?” He asks.

“Do you want to go to it?” She counters.

“I wouldn’t be welcome there,” he says in that easy, factual way of his.

Of course he wouldn’t. There’s no Nimue to vouch for him. The thought hits her and suddenly the bitter feeling has a name. She’s jealous. Jealous that some get a pass and some do not. Jealous that some can go home and some cannot. She doesn’t even have anyone in particular to direct that anger to. Nimue has had a hard road to become the Queen she is, Pym is nothing but proud of her. Lancelot did the things he did and she can’t blame anyone who only sees death when they look at him. She already hates the Paladins, but she knows she can’t live her life by hating things. Not without becoming something she’ll hate herself.

“But would you want to be?” She asks. He looks away silently, pressing his lips together. She’s not surprised he doesn’t know the answer, “you’re Fey. If this is to be the Fey homeland, you would be allowed there,” he nods, “but I can see how being somewhere you’re not wanted wouldn’t be appealing,” she offers.

“Why don’t you want to go there?” He asks.

She tries not to think about how he’s given her another reason just now. Talking about the Fey remains a touchy subject for him. For all of them. She toys with the edge of her bandage, it’s becoming a nervous habit. She’s not sure what she’ll do when it’s gone. It’s almost time to remove it.

“I’m not sure I’d belong there,” she admits finally, “it sounds foolish, I was happy back where I was,” she explains, “but now I’ve become a passable healer and gone on these adventures. I don’t know, it feels like I’ve seen too much of the world to hide from it again,” she tries to smile, “besides a new home isn’t going to be the same.”

He listens quietly and doesn’t react negatively, even though she’s sure she’s said a dozen things he could take the wrong way. It’s confusing because he’s somehow the one responsible for burning down her home and the one who understands being changed by the things that follow after it. It’s not like being friends with Nimue, where she knows that people are being foolish for ostracizing her. It’s not that simple. People aren’t foolish for ostracizing him right now, but the longer he stays the more she feels things tipping that way. The idea of being on his side is a complicated one that fills her with dread, but it’s not nearly as unpleasant as the thought of him leaving.

“Besides, I don’t think I’d want to be in a place that you couldn’t at least visit,” she adds. He’s getting better at controlling the surprised look that she seems to bring up on his face, but she catches the glimmer of it. “You’re not terrible company,” she says, “when you try.”

He doesn’t seem to know how to respond but then again she wasn’t really expecting him to. She can feel her face getting warm and desperately tries to fight the feeling. The guilt of betrayal is still there, but the taste of it has softened somewhat. It feels less wrong not to hate being around him, just slightly. There’s others too. Not all non Fey are bad, she’s learned that. She would miss living in a place where she never saw them again. She’s also not foolish enough to think that isolating will keep them safe. All the magic in the world won’t do that, not anymore. It’s a combination of things, but the truth is that the idea of hiding somewhere from the world, from its people, from him, now it sounds terrible. No matter how much safety it promises.

“I can look at the route,” he offers after a moment of silence from when she spoke, “I don’t know if the Paladin’s strategy has changed but I know their general way of thinking.”

“Thank you,” she says.

They both know the idea will probably be dismissed. For the first time it makes her sad, as well as frustrated. He could be useful, but she’s not sure if she trusts anyone not to push into territory he’s uncomfortable with. Or what his reaction to that would be. She isn’t sure why that should even matter. When she looks at the group that surrounds the table, she knows that there’s only one person who she can speak to who might listen to the idea. Without immediately overreacting. As the group starts to dissipate she gets up and goes over to him. 

“Can I speak to you?” She asks.

“Of course,” Arthur says, “excuse me,” he adds to everyone. The Red Spear gives him a lingering look as Pym heads away with him, “Lancelot wants to help,” she says, “he said he could help us not run into them.”

“Do you believe him?” Arthur asks.

“I—“ she looks over to see him moving towards Squirrel, “I do,” she says, looking back at Arthur, “he can help us. He kept us safe before.”

Arthur is silent for a moment. Pym knows it looks bad. Asking them to trust him is going to be a leap for anyone. Arthur’s managed to sell himself and gain the trust and back it up with his actions. Lancelot has done the opposite. Of course Arthur bore the stigma unfairly, the burdens unfairly. Lancelot has earned what people think of him and she doesn’t know if there is time for him to change that. Getting everyone to where they need to go safely is important, even if she’s not sure she’ll end up with them. If they die on the way though, if the Fey die, she doesn’t know how she can live with that.

“I know it looks bad,” she says.

“It looks—very bad,” Arthur agrees, “I can take your word at it, but the others—“

“I don’t have any sway over them,” she agrees.

“I didn’t say that,” Arthur corrects, “you do. People know you. They respect you,” he looks at Lancelot, “but they don’t understand.”

“How do we make them understand?” Pym asks. Arthur raises his eyebrows at her, “you’ve charmed your way into everyone liking and trusting you,” she points out, “even the Red Spear lets you call her nicknames. I’ve seen men gutted for less.”

Arthur flushes and Pym rolls her eyes, he knows full well how attractive he is. She’ll never forget him singing Nimue into smiles and blushes in the market, turning her friend into the girl that life had never let her be. No matter how charming he is though, no matter how charming anyone is—Lancelot is not. And even if he was, she doesn’t think anyone could be charming enough to make up for the things he’s done.

“Can we try to get him heard?” She asked.

“We can try,” Arthur agrees, “if they refuse, I can at least make sure he’s able to help if they catch us.”

“Thank you,” Pym says, even as her heart sinks. She has no love for the Paladins. But she knows that Lancelot still feels some kind of loyalty towards them. Setting him up to do that seems wrong. But it’s the best option they have, “thank you for understanding,” she adds, “and everything else.”

Arthur smiles and grasps her shoulder. If Nimue had to pick a human to be around, Pym is glad it’s this one. She goes over to where Lancelot and Squirrel are. She watches as Squirrel imitates the odd way that Lancelot has his hands held.

“It feels odd,” Squirrel complains.

“Did holding a bow feel natural?” Lancelot counters.

“No,” he admits.

“Practice and it will feel less strange,” he says. He glances back at Pym but sees the face Squirrel pulls, “do Fey Knights listen to those who know what they are talking about?”

“Yes,” Squirrel says, dropping the look and focusing on his hands.

The respect the two have for each other is an odd but welcomed thing to see. For all Lancelot has spoken of his childhood and the man he’s become, Pym wonders if he’s realized how much he’s done to keep that from happening to Squirrel.

“What are you doing?” She asks, joining them.

“Lancelot’s teaching me,” Squirrel says, “like you’re teaching him about us.”

“You’ve spent far more time around Fey Knights,” she says, “You’ll have to take it over soon.”

“I am one,” Squirrel points out.

“I remember,” Pym says.

“I’m a real Knight,” Squirrel insists, “even though I’m a boy. Sir Gawain Knighted me himself,” Pym nods, “so it’s not ‘teaching’ him.”

“What is it then?” She asks, not sure why her heart starts to pick up.

“It’s called being a Squire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love and super helps me motivation wise. Tumblr mentions/kudos/comments makes my day and I'm so thankful for everyone whose helping me out by taking the time to let me know if they enjoyed the story or have questions. You can always find me on Tumblr. Let me know what you think and I'll see you in the next chapter!


	20. Ash: Part 20

  
The plan is insane. Lancelot cannot believe that either of them thinks this is a good idea—that Pym thinks it’s a good idea. She’s usually the most rational one, though if he considers it she has her own propensity for danger. All of them do. But it all seems to be spur of the moment, thinking on their feet in the middle of adrenaline insanity. This is the first insane plan he’s heard that has actual thought put into it. And it is more mad than any he has thought of or participated in.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I can’t decide for you,” she says, “this is up to you. I am just saying it’s a way that could work.”

“This is madness,” he says, “he’s a boy.”

“We don’t take Knighthood lightly,” she says, “those words are never said just on ceremony.”

“I know but—“

“It’s not really up to either of you,” Squirrel pipes up.

Lancelot tried to motion him away but he refused. Because despite everything that tells Lancelot to send him away and spare him this choice, Pym’s right. The plan does involve him. He should have expected the Fey to have these kinds of ceremonies and rituals. They have always taken their traditions so seriously. He can understand Gawain’s desire to protect Squirrel and give him hope, but he’s sure the Knight never thought that his actions would lead to this. Even just the suggestion feels like a betrayal. To the Fey, to the Church, there doesn’t seem to be any winning no matter how he examines it. Squirrel looks between both of them.

“I’m the Knight,” he says.

“You are still a boy,” Lancelot replies. Pym folds her arms but one of them has to say it, “you will grow into the title.”

“I’m not,” Squirrel says, “I’ve been through the same things that everyone else has. I lost my home and my family, same as any of them. I’m not a boy anymore just because you want me to be.”

The frustration is back, joined by worry. They’ve been intent on protecting him, it’s been an unspoken thing between them. But from the look on Squirrel’s face, it hasn’t been something he’s appreciated. Lancelot wishes it was as simple as a child does not know what is best for them, but Squirrel is right. He’s lost as much as any, perhaps more. He will never have years of memories or be able to grow up safely. That is something nothing will give him back. He’s shown that he’s a strong boy, that he has all the makings of a good, brave man. The kind of Knight Lancelot knows he would be sent after personally. But he still has growing up to do. Growing up that is better done as a boy in a safe haven. Not shackled to someone like him. Lancelot knows he can teach the boy to fight, teach him to be a warrior capable of protecting others. In body at least, he’s capable in spirit without any help.

“Don’t say no just because I’m young,” Squirrel says, “Gawain Knighted me because I followed him. I’m good at that.”

“I remember,” he says, “Go—“

“Why? So you two can have another one of your secret conversations?” Squirrel asks, “if it’s about him being my Squire I should be here.”

Pym opens and closes her mouth and looks away. Her face is pink. Again. Lancelot reminds himself that Squirrel would have to be blind not to notice. They’ve both sent him away so he can’t overhear. Squirrel is also a Fey and a boy. It’s not as if some snot nosed novice is telling Father that he’s been in the woods drawing the green from the plants. There’s no reason to feel guilt or embarrassment or fear, if Father appears to remind him of his Vows they are all in far more trouble.

“I’m not your Squire yet. Go,” he says nodding to the deck.

Squirrel sighs and goes off mumbling under his breath. Lancelot turns to look at Pym. They both know this is a foolish idea. No matter what she says about the words being sincere, the boy binding himself to him like this is madness. And that is before all of the other things that it will mean. He has no place among the Paladins, he knows that. If he thinks about it, he never truly did. But for the moment he has the same illusions that have always made his life bearable. That have always allowed him the lie that if he does enough, he will be one of them. He knows exactly how long he can have that lie for. If he runs his fingers against his scalp he can already feel the hair starting to come in.

“If you have a better idea I am all ears,” Pym says.

“I cannot be his Squire,” he says.

“Can’t or won’t?” She asks and it somehow comes out as a question rather than an accusation.

“I am not part of these Folk,” he says, “doing this would bind us together.”

“You’re already bound together,” Pym points out. He frowns and she sighs, “do you think he hasn’t told everyone on this ship about your adventures together?” She searches his face, “you don’t spend time with young ones do you?”

“No,” he says.

“Well he has,” Pym says, “he’s already chosen to bind himself to you.”

“He’s a boy.”

“He’s right,” he glances at her, “he’s lost everything as well. I don’t want him to have those burdens, but it’s already happened. I want him to know how to carry them,” she sighs, “besides we both know he’s going to figure out a way to follow you.”

“Bind him then,” he says.

“What part of ‘he’s going to find a way’ isn’t getting through to you?” She questions, “do you really think what I can do—what anyone can do—is any match for that?”

She has a point, unfortunately. He can grudgingly admit that. Not that he would believe it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. Squirrel is young but it won’t be long before he’s in that growth spurt that takes boyhood from every man. Lancelot has always been taught to push past his worry of his own damned soul, that is something to be hidden in the quiet moments before sleep. He’s rarely had anything else to worry about, much less a boy like Squirrel. He has no trouble imagining him running into battle with insufficient training and getting himself killed. Lancelot has killed enough Fey Knights in single combat to know its not as difficult as they like to tell themselves. Worse, he’s seen Squirrel charge into battle with a sword and a rock. He has no doubt that the boy would do it again.

“I’m too old to be his Squire,” he says, “I’ve already been a novice,” he adds.

“I’m not going to try and convince you to do this,” she says, “being his Squire would bind you two together. It would also give you a voice here, it’s a declaration of loyalty,” she says, “then one day maybe you would be a Knight as well.”

He thinks about Gawain sitting there, telling him he could be one of their strongest blades. That his people needed him. He remembers his own rebuttal, the Fey were not his people. Not in that moment. He finds the Knight creeping into his thoughts more and more. His certainty was so clear, his faith in his beliefs was unshakable. Like Father’s Faith. Lancelot does not know who he is supposed to believe. If it even matters, since they both met the same end. Either Gawain was right and they are in the same twilight place or Father was right and one is in heaven, one in hell. He could ask Morgana but he has a feeling the answer won’t be honest. If she answers at all. He thought becoming a Brother would mean acceptance but that never came. He’s not foolish enough to think that becoming a Knight would grant him the same. But from experience he knows it would give him something. A voice, a freedom or two, a purpose. It would also mean renouncing his vows.

He’s not ready.

That doesn’t matter.

“Would it make them listen to me about our route?”

“You can’t make them do anything,” Pym says, folding her arms, “but it might help.”

He longs for the days when he could make people listen in other ways. Lancelot wonders if the longing will ever truly go away, or if he’s forever bound to the way he lived for most of his life. He has forgotten what it is to be homesick, but the Paladins were home. It’s another war that fills his head and sends agitation through his veins. If he focuses just on what needs to be done, he knows that this is the way forward. But the voice he’s spent years learning to listen to tell him how wrong it is, how it goes again everything he knows. How it Damns him once again. The years he must Burn are uncountable at this point. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye but it’s Pym, adjusting her braid. Something shows on his face. There’s a brief flash of fear in her eyes before she rolls them like she knows the behavior is ridiculous.

“It’s not something you have to swear to now,” she says, “we can come up with another way.”

“It’s better to spend that time dealing with the Paladins,” he says.

“We can do both,” Pym points out, “I know you think what you want doesn’t matter but it does here.”

He longs for the days when he was difficult to read.

He means to search for Squirrel but his feet take him to Goliath.

The mount raises his head and looks to him for his signal. He’s a well trained steed, Lancelot made sure of that. But he remembers the days of him being a young colt, more interested in frolicking than working. He remembers training him to follow commands and not be afraid, training him to spare him the whip or the crueler ways of motivation the Paladins liked to use. He strokes his hand down Goliath’s forehead. The horse know there’s no order coming and relaxes into the touch. He’s sure he doesn’t want to hunt the Fey. He doesn’t know how Goliath feels on the subject, if he even has feelings on it. It feels ridiculous, like he’s looking for a reason to not do what needs to be done. He hasn’t felt like this much of a coward since he was a boy. The feeling is usually tucked into the back of his head, not being pushed through his veins with every beat of his heart.

“We could teach each other,” Squirrel says.

“You don’t understand what this would mean for you,” he says.

“Yes I do,” Squirrel says.

“You can’t.”

“Yes I can! I’m the same as anyone here. You can’t just treat me like a child—“

“You are a child,” he says.

“What does that matter?”

“Because—“

“Because why?”

“Because I was a child when the Paladins took my home,” Lancelot snaps, “you do not understand what blinding yourself to someone who did that will do to you.”

Squirrel clamps his mouth shut but doesn’t look at him with fear. He hasn’t in a long time. Lancelot isn’t sure if he wants the fear back or he wants him to never be afraid of him. Doubt creeps across the boy’s face but there’s no feeling of triumph. Lancelot ignores the urge to try and change that. He needs to understand. This foolish idea needs to be laid to rest before the temptation drives him mad. Squirrel looks doubtful and is silent for a moment, just long enough for Lancelot to think that he’s gotten through to the boy. It’s a false sense of security. A moment later he juts his chin up and squares his shoulders.

“I’m not you,” he says, “and you didn’t have you. I saved you too. Did you do that as a boy?”

“No.”

“Did you have a Paladin save you?”

“I thought I did,” he says.

“No really. Like you saved me,” Squirrel says. He shakes his head, “so we’re not the same. I have you,” he says, “I’d be a good Knight for you,” he ventures, “I can help you learn about being a Fey. Not like Gawain would, but I can help.”

Lancelot hates himself for not dismissing the idea. For voicing anything about his boyhood. He also knows that its not as simple as just preserving the boy’s innocence and thinking that undoes everything. Squirrel’s childhood has been taken. He only has fragments of it. Lancelot’s life has been taken as well. Soon both of their fragments of comfort will be gone. He is not anxious for that, but he is unwilling to have it sneak up on him.

“I cannot teach you to fight as Gawain would have,” he says finally.

Of all the responses, he is not expecting Squirrel to throw himself into his chest and lock his arms around his torso. If Pym can read him well, Squirrel seems able to read him as an open book. It’s the most ridiculous thing, this entire idea is preposterous. Trusting the boy, trusting this bond, this friendship. It should not exist. He’s been waiting for it to fall apart. Squirrel is a child, Lancelot refuses lose sight of that even if he also going to have to accept his childhood will never be what it should be.

Loyalty should not be this easy.

It settles over him like a caress. Like surfacing for air. It feels different, it feels a way that his loyalty to the Paladins never did. He cannot name it ‘right’, he doesn’t dare. But it feels like it settles over him in a purpose that is supposed to be his. When he hears Father’s voice echo about the Road and Salvation, he realizes that his feet are at the beginning of a different road. There’s no blood or death or shame. That lingers and surrounds it, but the Path is different. There will never be a way out, not for him, but there is a way forward.

One that starts with an embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly my most insane idea (so far, just wait), but it’s been on my mind since the show when Squirrel got Knighted and saved Lancelot.
> 
> As always thank you for the reviews, kudos, the tumblr screaming etc. I can’t tell you how much it helps me stay motivated in updating this frequently, but it’s a lot. Let me know your thoughts and I’ll see you in the next chapter!


	21. Ash: Part 21

The shore appears on the horizon ominously.

She doesn’t know why it makes her heart beat faster. Why something in her shouts that they should sail away and just keep sailing. The other boats will be there too. Surely they won’t miss just one not making it onto shore. They have a good plan, Lancelot thinks it will help them stay away from the Paladins and get to their destination, but every step forward fills her with dread. It feels as though it is solidifying and becoming something firmer. Like the closer the shore comes the stronger the dread gets.

“You look nervous.”

Pym jumps as she faces Morgana. She thinks by now she should be used to all kinds of terrifying things sneaking up on her, but there’s something different about this. Merlin is a drunk, grieving father. Morgana is the embodiment of the anger she keeps trying to push down, the death that she continues to war against. She’s scary in a very different way. Worse, there’s that girlish thing of when your best friend gets another best friend and you wonder where on earth you fit in the mix. Pym tries to smile and fails and gives up.

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

“You’re sure a lot will be fine,” Morgana says. The guilt churns fresh in her stomach, “you shouldn’t trust him.”

It’s not the first time Pym has been told she shouldn’t trust someone. It’s not even the first time she’s been told it by someone much more powerful and much more knowledgeable. But it is the first time that their words have connected to her own guilt regarding the subject. Morgana has seen him do things that Pym knows should make her not trust him. Even as he constantly proves himself worthy of some level of trust, she only has to close her eyes before she thinks about her dead parents and friends and Nimue, who he hunted down like an animal. She thinks about everyone’s loved ones, people he killed or led the Paladins to. Sometimes when she thinks about it she feels like she’s fresh to the boat and about to lose her stomach.

“He’s done terrible things,” she says, “he was a monster story even to the Church, something we would whisper about at night. He would come to us if we didn’t say our prayers right,” she speak steadily but Pym can hear the anger, “it had nothing to do with him being a Fey,” Pym feels her mouth go dry, “don’t push him to be one of you like this, he knows too much already,” she says, “he learned it from burning you all alive. It’s not your fault, people would say anything to make the flames stop.”

Pym bites into her cheek as she thinks of what Lancelot can actually do. There’s no screaming or begging, the best Pym can tell there isn’t any time. There’s just a flash of green and then you’re gone. Well, that or she gets someone to stab him and direct the energy elsewhere. Morgana didn’t see though. No-one saw. Her brother just did the only thing he could to spare Pym more pain, without question or hesitation. Because Arthur is a good man. Lancelot could be, maybe. But the sins of his past are never going to be undone. No-one’s sins ever are, but even she can see the difference between stealing and willingly participating in genocide. She means to say that to Morgana’s insistent face. Truly she does.

“He has a name,” is what comes out instead. It surprises even Morgana and Pym wonders how, after everything, she’s still blurting out the worst thing at the worst time, “I’m sorry, it’s just—not that simple anymore,” she says.

“It is to the dead,” Morgana says.

Pym doesn’t know if she’s speaking metaphorically or if she’s actually spoken to them. It doesn’t matter. Her stomach is by her ankles anyway. All Fey are brothers, even his religion even preaches how killing your brother is a sin. Pym knows that she’s been one of the people trying to help him. But the guilt hasn’t ever truly left. It’s horrifying to think somehow the three of them have wound up carrying their own weights of guilt. Squirrel doesn’t deserve his, especially not about Nimue. Lancelot has his and has decided to face it. Pym though, Pym feels as though she’s still learning how to hold hers. She could set it down and walk away. She would be lying if she said there wasn’t the temptation to do that. If in times like this, the temptation wasn’t overwhelmingly strong. But if she forces herself to be quiet, she feels her fingers tighten on the proverbial stone. She’s not a Knight, she’s not some great hero, but she can lift a bucket. She can carry the guilt.

“Lancelot’s a Squire,” she says, “he’s declared loyalty—“

“He declared loyalty to the Church a long time ago,” Morgana cuts in, “switching sides again just makes him a traitor twice over.”

Pym remembers him saying the same thing. But she doesn’t dare voice that to Morgana. She can see echoes of the same hatred on both of them, but it seems to have burrowed far deeper in Lancelot. It’s a part of him in a way that it doesn’t seem to be for Morgana. She exists separate from it, she exists in spite of it. It is a part of Lancelot. Who he becomes will be tangled up with that. She’s not a fool, but the darkness in others has never scared her away. But Nimue was born with that, Lancelot had chosen it. Under duress, under circumstance she cannot blame him for, but he did choose it. And it is directed at her and what she is, in a way that Nimue’s never was.

“It’s not that simple,” she says finally.

“I promise it is,” Morgana replies, “not everyone is going to remind him of who he was. And Squirrel isn’t going to remind him for too much longer.”

“Squirrel isn’t the only one he’s saved,” she says. Morgana smirks and she knows exactly what she’s thinking, “it’s not that simple,” she repeats.

“Don’t make the same mistake as the boy,” Morgana says, “people who believe like him, like Iris, that kind of belief doesn’t go away. He’s only here because Father Carden isn’t around to tell him otherwise. But that doesn’t mean he’s thrown away the thing that he’s been doing his entire life.”

She leaves Pym breathless in a terrible way. It’s like having all your darkest thoughts and doubts laid out before you. Maybe that is the difference. She knew Nimue before, when they were young. When the world still had hope and innocence in it. Or maybe it’s just that Nimue’s darkness didn’t burn down her village. Though there are plenty who were expecting it to.

“Morgana,” Arthur appears like his sister’s shadow. Maybe he is now. Pym knows she’s not the only one trying to understand a darkness that she isn’t sure she can. The ship rocks below her feet and Morgana gives a look of disgust that has nothing to do with Lancelot, “I hid the liquor—“

“He’s an immortal grief stricken wizard. I told you to throw it overboard,” she says, gathering up here skirts and stalking off.

Arthur approaches her slower, offering a kind smile Pym doesn’t think she deserves. Arthur seems to go out of his way to help everyone, the Fey and the Raiders. It’s frustrating how some people can be who they say they are and others can wind up completely different. She’s used to it in the small, insular world she was a part of. Here the stakes are so much higher. How anyone trusts anyone in this world is a complete mystery to her.

“She wasn’t speaking of your dead relatives was she?”

“No,” Pym says, “why, can she do that?”

Arthur shrugs.

“I’m not entirely sure what she can and can’t do—“ he says, “I’m not sure anyone is. Even Merlin himself.”

Pym isn’t sure if she wants to speak to her dead relatives or even what she would ask them. Or if she wants to give them an opportunity to judge her. She wishes there was one thing she was sure about, instead of feeling like she’s been caught in the tides and is being pulled out to the unknown. She’s only sure that she’s unsure.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks, “I know that’s a stupid question, but it felt like someone needs to ask.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, “you just—you’ve done a lot—“

“Is this about Lancelot?” She asks.

“Not entirely,” he says. She raises her eyebrows, “that’s a big part of it,” she sighs, “you’re the only adult Fey who isn’t scared of him,” he says, “given everything—“

“Why aren’t you scared of him?” She counters, “you’ve been more helpful than any other man here,” she points out, “even though he’s part of something you hate and he’s killed people you love.”

Arthur nods, no shame in his gaze. The Red Spear has also been helpful, but she’s also locked him up. Arthur’s given him his horse, allowed him to have weapons. All things that he probably shouldn’t. He definitely shouldn’t. But Pym’s grateful that he has. So grateful that she’s never really examined the reasoning behind it. Arthur looks old suddenly. Or older than she’s seen him look, like a great weariness has settled over him. Like he’s got his own rocks of guilt to carry.

“I know what it’s like to not have chances because of your past,” he says, “and what it can be to have one. Even the smallest one,” he explains, “I let him have a horse and he saved both of you. Let him keep his shackles off and he’s got it so Squirrel is the only boy here who seems capable of laughing. If I give him a chance at helping get you where you all need to go, he may save everyone.”

“So he’s earned a chance,” Pym says. Arthur sighs and nods, “do you feel like giving him one is a betrayal of the people who died?” She asks quietly.

Arthur is silent for a moment.

“When my father died, he gave me his debts,” he says, “I spent my childhood thinking that I was nothing more than the sum I owed,” he looks out at the water, “I don’t think the dead can be betrayed,” he says, “I’ve only seen how they can betray the living,” he looks back at her, “he died when I was much younger,” he says, “everyone would understand if you didn’t forgive him.”

“That’s the problem,” she sighs, “it’s not that simple, but I think I’m starting to?” She rubs at her temples, “and then I just feel guilty because what does that make me?”

“A better person than most,” Arthur says.

“I was going to say traitor,” Pym admits, “or a bad Fey.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Arthur tells her, “but for what it’s worth, I don’t think forgiving someone makes you a bad Fey or a traitor.”

She doesn’t know if she should believe him, but for the moment she lets herself listen. He’s been right about a lot of things. Maybe he’s right about this. At the very least it helps to hear that she’s not losing her mind.

“You’re a good man, has anyone told you that?” She asks.

“It seems they can’t stop,” he says, “Gwen—“ he cuts himself off, his eyes going wide, “forget I said that.”

“Said what—“ she glances over her shoulder at the people milling about, “no,” she gasps, “she told you her name?” She looks between them, “her name’s Gwen?”

The name’s never said on the ship, so it seems to echo. People’s conversation falters. Pym watches as The Red Spear, Gwen, rolls her eyes and gets to her feet. She gives Arthur a look of disgust that’s still somehow oddly softer than the looks that Pym’s seen her give people. But it hardens when she looks at Pym.

“It’s Guinevere,” she says, “and we don’t say it on this ship.”

“I’ve noticed,” Pym gets out, wondering how someone can choose not to use such a beautiful name.

“Good. Forget you heard it,” Guinevere orders, “I don’t care if I’m bleeding out on your table when we get back, you didn’t hear that name.”

“When we get back?” Pym repeats.

Guinevere rolls her eyes.

“We’ll get your people to where they’re going. Then if you want back on my ship you have a place here. You’ve managed to keep us alive so far.”

Pym doesn’t know why she immediately feels better. Maybe it’s just because the ship feels more like home than any of the other places she’s been of late. Which is odd to think about. But the idea of being here pulling arrows from Raider’s backsides has more appeal than being in an isolated island that Lancelot can’t even visit. Pym feels color warm up her cheeks at the gruff praise. Her blush makes Guinevere’s lip curl and she rounds on Arthur.

“You, on the other hand—“  
  
“I’m sorry it just slipped out—“

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. You best hope my healer gets ready instead of running off for one of her chit chats with the monk.”

“I think he’s a Squire now.”

“I think you’re about to be in trouble.”

They back away or Arthur does with Guinevere advancing on him. The sound of her name makes conversation falter but her backing him up with a finger in his chest and murder in her eyes makes it pick right up again. Apparently that is nothing new. She shakes her head and wonders momentarily if she was serious about hurting Arthur but decides that she wasn’t. Then she remembers the rest of what she said.

Apparently the entire ship is aware of their conversations.

There are worse things to be aware of but that doesn’t exactly keep her face from growing hot at the realization. And hotter still when she realizes that she’s looking around for him to do exactly that. There are plenty of other people on the ship with shared experience, other Fey who she can at least try to fit in with. But he’s the one she wants to talk to. It occurs to her suddenly that she might be edging towards an entirely different kind of trouble. 

But the thought is so utterly preposterous she shoves it out of her mind without a second thought, lets the breeze cool her face for a moment and then goes to look for her friends. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise everyone will be back in the next chapter, but I wanted to let Pym speak to other people etc. I don't want her story to have less development than Lancelot and Squirrel's. I also wanted to explore Arthur and Lancelot because i like the potential dynamic.
> 
> Feedback is love! You guys are helping me so much with the comments/kudos/tumblr messages, it makes it so easy to update as often as I do. It is beyond motivating to know I'm not alone in writing this and people are reading it and sharing this ridiculous tug boat of a ship. So please let me know what you thought! Onwards to the next chapter.


	22. Ash: Part 22

It feels nauseating to go back on land.

Lancelot vaguely remembers that from the last time he went from ship to land. They disembark efficiently, but it’s not terribly quick. The horses are nervous. He takes the other mount. Pym leads Goliath. He follows her easily. The mount he leads takes a little more convincing, but it comes easier than some of them. He supposes that the steed has been through more than most of them. The night in the woods when he found the horse after making the Fire feels like a lifetime ago. If he thinks about, in a way it was. But the horse came then and it comes now. Easier this time.

He’s grateful because nothing else is going to be easy for the foreseeable future.

The other ships are there and word has not exactly spread like he would expect. There’s a lot of whispers and several shrieks when someone spots him. He’s used to infamy, he expected nothing less. But he’s got nothing to hide himself in the way he’s accustom to doing. He can just keep moving and try to keep himself as neutral as possible. From the horror that’s reflected back to him, it doesn’t help. He doubts anything would. The embodiment of death, a wizard the Fey Folk already hate and dozens of Raiders and Men wait for them, but all eyes keep dragging towards him. It’s fair, he knows that, but the idea of being the center of their view is unfathomable. The idea crosses his head that he could walk away from all of this and into the woods, or back onto the ship with the few that are staying behind. Instead he walks over to Goliath and Pym.

“I am not looking forward to riding,” she remarks, turning to him. He ducks his head in acknowledgement. She looks over his shoulder and rolls her eyes, “they’ll get used to your presence soon,” she says.

“Is that going to matter?” He asks before he can stop himself.

“I don’t know,” she says. How could she? She hesitates, “I’m used to seeing you,” she offers, “give it a few days?”

“Pym can you do that thing?” Squirrel asks, dragging over a Fey boy. One of the Snake Clan. He shoves away the whirl of information his mind brings up on weaknesses. Despite looking queasy the boy still shies back at the sight of him. He turns to go but Pym grabs his wrist.

“Here, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” she says, “see it looks like this.”

She shifts her hands and finds those points. After a moment the nausea goes away completely, though it was bearable before. He realizes that she probably knows the boy isn’t afraid of the technique, or not as afraid of the technique, as he is of him. But using him like this shows the boy that there isn’t anything to be afraid of for either. She drops her hands and smiles at him. The boy takes care to keep Squirrel between them and go the longest way to Pym, but he makes it over there. Pym crouches down and presses the points for him. The boy makes a noise but holds still and the nausea goes away,

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” she says. The boy’s eyes drag over to him, “that’s Lancelot,” she says.

Fear is naked on the boy’s face but it seems to war with what he’s been taught about how they work. He hesitates for another moment before looking down at the ground and mumbles something that might be his name. His courage wavers for a moment and then he takes off back to his Folk. It’s longer than Lancelot would have expected him to last. He watches him go. There are so many Fey here, but he can sort their scents. Some of them are familiar. He expected as much, it was inevitable. Many of them blend together, but a few are more distinct. This one of the more distinct ones.

He recognizes the violet.

Lancelot is used to the Fey shying away from him. Especially those who have lost everything. He’s not used to them glaring at him, with their arms folded and their faces full of disgust. He remembers cutting this Fey down, right before he took Gawain. She had been alive, though his only objective had been to get to the Knight. He had been single minded in that. He’s surprised she hasn’t drawn her sword, but looking at her he gets the impression that she doesn’t act blindly. Pym moves out of the corner of his eye but he doesn’t take his focus off the Fey in front of him.

“Were you already doubting them when you cut me down?” She asks, “or are you planning on selling us out?”

“Kaze—“ the Fey holds up a hand to Pym. He sees Squirrel move and stops him, though that takes a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes narrow, “he’s one of us now.”

  
“Why should that matter now?” She questions, her gaze moving up and down his form.

“Because,” Pym ducks under her arm, “we aren’t the Paladins,” Kaze’s eyes drag from his to her, “we’re better than that.”

Her eyes flick back to him, still thoroughly unimpressed, and then back to Pym. There’s more respect in them when she looks at her. But it’s not the respect one warrior shows another. It’s a different kind.

“How has he proven his loyalty?”

“Well he saved our lives,” she says, “and Squirrel made him his Squire.”

Kaze looks at her for a long moment and then snorts. The laughter stings more than most of the things he’s been through recently. Though he reminds himself that pride is a sin. He’s spent a lifetime being laughed at and mocked by his Brothers, he knew that being among the Fey wouldn’t be different. Suffering was supposed to cleanse the soul. He knows the suffering that waits him in Hell will be far greater. But this chafes, even though he has to remind himself that he cut her down not too long ago. Probably did more terrible things to her people as well. He deserves worse than to have a warrior laugh at him. Kaze looks up at Pym and the laughter vanishes.

“You’re serious?”

“Gawain Knighted me,” Squirrel says, “Lancelot saved me so I took him as my Squire to teach him the ways of the Fey.”

“Very serious,” Pym adds.

Kaze gives him a long, hard look and bares her teeth.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” she says, “Sir,” she adds to Squirrel.

She moves off and doesn’t look back but Lancelot has no doubt that he’s going to be watched. No matter what anyone says. He’s going to have to be careful. He touches Pym’s shoulder and steps away from her, freeing his spare cloak from Goliath’s saddle bags. The heavy hood is cumbersome but putting it on feels better. Neither Pym nor Squirrel remark on it and he ignores the look they trade.

“You should go back on Goliath,” Pym says.

He shakes his head.

“The other horse still needs work,” he says, fastening the bag back and tying down her healers bag.

“Are you alright?” She asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” he says, “I’ve done worse to them,” he points out, “you cannot always put yourself in front of me.”

“I’m not,” she protests.

  
He raises his eyebrows and she sighs, blushing like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. She seems to always be going out of her way to try and make sure he’s got a chance to prove himself. Not force him to do it, but give him the chance to do it himself. He would say that is how the Fey are, but every encounter he has shows him how not true that is. They try but she seems to grip her code tighter than most. Follow it better than most. In a way that he would never voice, she reminds him of the Paladins he would worship as a boy. Father called in blasphemy, but he remembers being moved by their faith, even as he tried to find his own.

“They just don’t know you yet,” she says, “I know how they can be with those they don’t understand.”

He almost retorts that there’s not much to understand past the fact that he burned down their villages and slaughtered their families. But Pym understands that. Sadness crosses her face and he gets the impression that she’s not just talking about him.

“You’re used to defending Nimue against them,” he says.

“Not that it made a difference,” she says, “I can—“ his arm goes out and presses against the saddle, blocking her exit. She glances back at him but the fear is instantaneously replaced by annoyance, “you know Kaze is looking for a reason to stab you,” she points out, turning around to face him.

“I don’t want you to get hurt or ostracized because of me,” he says.

She stares up at him wide eyed and the blush doesn’t go away quickly. She doesn’t seem afraid but her pupils dilate and then shrink back. Of all the scents of the Fey, hers has become the most familiar. She’s the closest to his nose height wise. This close he barely needs to inhale before he smells it. He’s not used to it being so sharp without her using her magic, but no vines have appeared on her veins. He can only see her pulse flutter in her neck. She doesn’t retort for a moment, she just looks up at him. Then she seems to come to herself and she shakes her head.

“Don’t be silly,” she says and he half thinks she’s talking to herself until she focuses on him, “I never cared about any of that back then, I certainly don’t care about it now.”

She’s said as much before but the idea of her putting herself between him and everyone who thinks poorly of him makes a knot form in his stomach. It’s some combination of guilt and dread. He know he doesn’t deserve either of their kindness. But there’s something about the occasional misgivings he sees on Pym’s face that he understands. He feels it as well.

“Just because I’m a Fey—“

“It’s not just because you’re a Fey,” she says, “though that’d be reason enough.”

“Then what else?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” she says.

The non-answer makes him frown which seems to make her smile. It’s odd how being teased by one person can make him feel as though he’s being flogged in his soul and another can make him feel like it’s maybe an accomplishment to put a smile on another’s face. The humiliation, at least, is familiar. He doesn’t know what the other thing is. He looks over and sees that the others are mostly off the ships. It will be time to move out. He wants to ask more questions but he knows better than to risk anyone’s safety. So instead he drops his hand from Goliath’s flank and leans down. By now it’s almost familiar to cup his hands so she can put her boot in them. She braces her other hand against his shoulder and he boosts her up onto Goliath.

“I’m riding with you,” Squirrel says.

“No you’re not,” he replies. Squirrel looks at him, “I’m making sure everyone is off the beach. You are going with the others.”

“Wait, what?”

He looks up at Pym. She seems surprised and troubled by what he’s saying. It’s not his favorite part of this either. But the riders all have their places and he knows how to cover their tracks. It makes the most sense. He doesn’t say any of that as Pym looks at him. He turns to Squirrel who folds his arms.

“I can help you,” he says, “I’m—“

“Right now you need to stay with Pym,” he cuts in, “a Knight protects others.”

He looks up at her. Thankfully, they both seem to be thinking the same thing as Squirrel opens his mouth. Lancelot knows his abilities are a prize. But Squirrel’s are very valuable, especially now. He would say that the Fey can be trusted, but none of them seem to know. He can see how it would make Squirrel a target. An orphan with powers like that. The longer they can keep it quiet, keep all of their powers quiet, the better things will be.

“Come on,” she says.

“But—“

“He’ll meet us at the camp,” Pym assures Squirrel. He helps settle the boy up on Goliath. He reminds himself that this makes sense. This is the best way he can help, “Lancelot.”

He turns around as something solid and metal drops into his hand. It’s an amulet of some kind. He vaguely recognizes the black cord from around Pym’s neck. He looks at her questioningly.

“It’s for luck,” she says, “and protection,” she tightens the reins, “we’ll see you tonight.”

He stands on the beach and watches them start to file out. It’s only a few hours, but it occurs to him that it’s the first time he’s been without the pair of them or Goliath. He regrets agreeing to the plan, though he knows its necessary. He’s not expecting them to look as concerned as they fall in line. Knowing they are among their kind is the most important thing. Trusting Arthur and his comrades to keep them safe is considerably harder. He tightens his fingers around the amulet. Next to him the horse nudges his shoulder.

“You’re going to need a name,” he tells it, slipping the cord over his head so he can keep his hands free, “let’s get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry I have a plan! I promise. We have a destination that we're going to and I have a plan for Pym's complicated emotions. Right now it's 100% supposed to feel like there's no way (or a very very slim chance) that something could happen romance wise. We're not there yet, but you'll see!
> 
> Thank you for all of the amazing comments/kudos/tumblr yells with me. It's so wonderful to not be alone on this little tug boat. It really motivates me with focusing on pumping out these chapters. Always feel free to say hi to me on Tumblr etc. Onwards and I will see you in the next chapter!


	23. Ash: Part 23

She’s anxious until she sees him again and mad at herself the entire time for the emotion.

Pym thinks, by now and with the current company she keeps, that she should be accustom to people running off to do stupid and brave things. That she should know most of the time they come back just fine. More or less. Doff was—an outlier. But seeing him on that stretcher plays in the back of her mind the entire time. She hates the juxtaposition. Dof was a good man. A kind man. Someone who went out of their way to help others in his own gruff ways. Pym understands that. He was charming and she understands that too. Even if Lancelot wasn’t the one to kill him, the Paladins were. Logically she knows that she should not be worried about someone like him off on his own in the woods. She shouldn’t be worried about him at all.

And yet she is.

She wonders if this was how Dof felt when he decided to save her on the docks. She doesn’t think she was as much trouble as Lancelot, but only slightly. The Red Spear’s ship really did need a healer. A much better healer than her. She thinks about how it could have ended with her drowning, which is only slightly better than the thought of her being forced to marry. Or maybe it’s worse. She doesn’t know, she just knows that she keeps glancing in the trees and trying not to choke on her panic that every rustle is going to be a Trinity Guard or a Paladin or something else throwing Lancelot’s dead body onto the ground at their feet. She’s known him for only a little while but she’s had more nightmares about him than most in her life. She has faith in the amulet, but the notion that she lent it to him is just—it still makes her face feel hot.

“What’s wrong with you?” Squirrel asks.

“Nothing,” she says.

“You look worried,” he cocks his head, “are you worried about Lancelot?”

“He’s fine,” she dismisses.

“So why do you look worried?” She says nothing. Squirrel leans forward, “are you mad?”

“No!” She says, “I’m fine, everything is fine,” she gets up, “I’m going to check on Goliath.”

“He’s also fine!”

Pym ignores that and walks off to check on him. She’s being ridiculous, she tells herself. She always cared about others, in the way that you were supposed to. But becoming a healer has made he so much more aware of their hurts. Not being able to help them feels almost like an insult. There is so much pain in those around her. So many who will never get the ones they love back. It seems foolish to be concerned. Just because of Dof and Nimue and Gawain who all rode off and never came back in one way or another. Or haven’t come back. Squirrel did. She doesn’t know why Goliath should make her feel better. Maybe because the horse is one of the only ones who understands the worry. Maybe he even understands the frustration and anger.

If horses get angry.

Pym isn’t a rider, not really. There was never much of a reason for her to ride. Her skin is still tender in patches from her first time in the saddle. She’s just grateful Goliath is well trained. She just has to hold on and the horse seems to know what to do. Which is wonderful because steering a horse is very firmly in the “I don’t know how to do this” column in the list she’s kept in her head. That column is long. But it doesn’t seem to have stopped her. Goliath raises his head and walks over as she approaches.

“When we get to where we’re going, I’m sure there will be treats for you,” she tells him, “if you like those.”

“He likes apples,” Lancelot says, leading the other horse into the field.

Pym doesn’t know how he manages to be so quiet, or rather how he’s managed to get the horse to be so quiet. When he drops the reins the horse immediately goes over to Goliath and starts to graze, like it knows that now is the time to relax but orders might be coming. Pym’s seen enough horses to know that there are very few as well trained. She’s actually only ever seen one. She wonders if Gawain knew Lancelot shared his talent. She glances back at him, looking for any injuries but he seems fine as he pushes back his hood. She feels her emotions go from relief to annoyance. Annoyance that only increases when Lancelot looks at her with confusion.

“Are you alright?”

“What makes you think I’m not?” She asks, turning to the horses, “does it change my scent?”

“Somewhat,” he admits.

Embarrassment and a different kind of horror flood her veins. She doesn’t know if he can smell that too. She’s met Fey with powerful gifts, but never one who used their so insidiously. He looks at her carefully as she folds her arms together. She knows logically that won’t help the situation, but it doesn’t stop her. It’s either the smell or her blatant discomfort but he seems to understand some line has been crossed. She sees the frustration as his body tenses.

“You should have said you were staying behind,” she says.

“What?” His confusion is palpable as his brows draw together, “why?”

“Because you tell your people what you’re doing so they don’t think you’re going to get yourself hurt,” she says, “or charge off into some stupid battle with no one to watch your back.”

“We discussed this, it made the most sense,” he says.

“Squirrel and I weren’t part of the discussion.”

“Squirrel would want to come with me,” he says, “you’re not a fighter.”

There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, his voice doesn’t change but the reminder stings like a blow. She’s not a fighter, she’s never been a fighter. Not like that. She remembers the weight of the axe in her hands, how the amulet around his neck was the only thing that kept her alive. That and passing out. Waking up to all the new people she had come to like dead or dying or bloody. Guinevere had said Fey were bad luck but Pym hadn’t believed her until that moment. She turns away before he can see the tears that threaten her. She’s not a fighter, if she was maybe she wouldn’t be in this confusing storm of emotions, she wouldn’t still be here when all her friends kept vanishing or dying. She wouldn’t be standing around being worried and smarting from her newness in the saddle.

“I meant with a weapon—“

“It wasn’t anything I ever needed to learn,” she says, “I thought I was going to stay in my village. Then I was on that ship and they needed a healer. I couldn’t learn instantly.”

“I know.”

“But I could fake being a healer,” she adds.

The explanation she’s given to herself is even more hollow when spoken aloud. It doesn’t make her feel stronger to know it was her best chance. She had never been a good liar, somehow the one lie that stuck changed her entire life. He’s right though, she’s not a fighter and at the end of the day what strength she’s managed to gather isn’t enough to do anything properly. Not save her friends, not sort her emotions, not even know what’s going to happen with a plan she had practically concocted. She knows she’s being ridiculous and she rubs under her eyes. Lancelot barely seems to know what to do off the battlefield and the thought of crying in front of him is humiliating even without that.

“You’re right I’m not a fighter I’m just a healer, this isn’t—“

He really is unnervingly quiet.

He’s in front of her when she turns, just as close as he was on the beach. For the life of her she can’t remember if he’s always stood so close and she’s just newly aware aware of it or if he doesn’t realize what he’s doing. He seems hyper aware of his surroundings in the purpose of a fight or of tracking. But not when there isn’t a threat. That seems new to him. He towers over her no matter where they stand in relation to one another but when he’s this close she has tilt her head to look into his eyes. The sun is lower in the sky and it seems to reflect off the marks on his cheeks.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to tell you,” he says.

“You weren’t,” she points out, “I’m not a fighter.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, “you’re not a fighter with a weapon though you could be. You’re a different kind of fighter,” he explains, “I’ll tell you next time.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” she repeats.

“I don’t care what others say I’m supposed to do,” he says, “you’ve kept the only secret that matters.”

Her mind flashes to the Fire. To the scar on his side she was fully prepared to deal him herself. Though she thinks he has more secrets that matter than he realizes, she knows that is the most important one. It’s the one that can be used against him more than any other. Plenty of Folk can undo knots. Making legendary fire is something else. Hiding them is as well. She’s a terrible liar, how she’s become the one keeping so many world altering secrets is beyond her. She makes knots. That’s nothing special.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I shouldn’t care about something so stupid. It barely matters in the scheme of everything.”

“I don’t want to upset you,” he says.

“You not telling me something isn’t what’s upsetting me,” she says. He looks confused again and she doesn’t blame him. Confused seems to be the only thing that she understands feeling these days.

“But you said—“ he trails off, frustration on his features, “you said it was that.”

“I know what I said,” she says, “I’m upset because it’s ridiculous to be worried about you, you can take care of yourself,” she says, “and its ridiculous because I am worried and at the same time I know I shouldn’t be worried about someone whose done the things you have.”

She claps her hand over her mouth. She expects him to turn away and shut down. It’s a horrible thing to say. She doesn’t expect him to relax slightly. Like they’ve gotten onto some kind of thing he understands rather than being tackled into the unfathomable depths she’s pitched them into. It was easier to say those kind of things when she didn’t look at him. But there isn’t any hurt or surprise or frustration in his gaze. Not like she expects.

“You feel guilty for caring.”

He says it so simply, like it’s a fact and nothing more. The sky is blue, water is cold, Guinevere hates her superstitions being challenged, Goliath is a good horse. He doesn’t say it like it’s nearly as embarrassing and confusing and torturous as she feels about it. He says it like he understands. Which arguably makes it worse and better at the same time.

“I watched the paladins burn down my village,” he says, “I never forgot it. But I cared for them. I fought for them,.”

“You were a boy,” She says.

“I grew up,” he points out.

“Did you ever feel guilty about what you did to the Fey?”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking about his answer. She wonders how it can be anything but a yes or no.

“I told myself it was weakness,” he says, “that it was a test from God,” he looks away, “I only recognized the feeling from when I saved myself from being burned.”

She knows how the puzzle pieces fit together after they’ve spoken about what happened to him. It doesn’t change what he’s done. It doesn’t save the people who died by his hand. But he’s spoken about it almost clinically. He’s spent so long hiding all his emotions, he doesn’t seem to know how to choose which to show and which to hide. It’s the first time she’s heard him speak of his guilt about what happened. Recognize it so plainly.

“I feel guilty for escaping,” she admits finally, “I tried to go back for them but I couldn’t without the Paladins seeing me.”

She knows she’s alive because she ran instead of anything else. The little head shake the ones she could see gave her doesn’t change the fact that she ran instead of staying to fight and die. She ran and hid and ran again. She knew that she would carry the guilt of surviving. She just didn’t know that she would find another who understood. She was just lucky enough to find the Raiders, to be older when it happened. Lancelot doesn’t tell her that she was right to run or escape. He seems to know that isn’t what she needs or wants to hear.

“Does it ever go away? The guilt?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“I wish you did,” she remarks.

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. It’s the first time she’s seen him smile. She’s surprised at how much younger it makes him look. She’s looked at his face enough, but she never appreciated that the marks on the outer corner of his eyes are in line with his lips. When he smiles, even bitterly, they shift as his muscles move. She’s not expecting Lancelot to have dimples that push his marks up.

“As do I,” he says.

They both fall silent. She expects it to be a silence that has to be filled, but it doesn’t. It can just be. That’s not the kind of silence that she’s used to having. She’s not expecting to feel comfortable with it happening around him.

“Thank you for not calling me insane,” she says.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I just yelled at you?”

“You’ve done that before,” he says, “I don’t think that makes you insane.”

She nods.

“You should go say hi to Squirrel,” she says, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He gives her a long look but nods finally, seeming to sense she needs a moment to herself. He heads back to the others, glancing behind him. Overall Pym finds she feels better, even just a little bit. She still feels embarrassed, but better. She takes a few deep breaths and starts to feel a little more capable.

That’s when Goliath bites her and drags her down.

The arrow hits the tree a moment later.

Pym lands on the grass and looks up at Goliath who lets out a horrible, loud sound. He sidesteps and she has no choice but to roll into a ball and cover her head to make sure his hooves don’t touch her. There’s more arrows and something hot and wet hits her face. One of them has been hit.

“Go!” She yells to the horse, having no idea if he’ll follow the command.

She has no time to scramble to her feet or even to look around as a pair of arms locks around her waist and she finds herself hauled over a black leather clad shoulder. Her last clear thought is to wonder how she's being kidnapped again.

Then someone throws a bag over her face, she smells herbs and consciousness slips away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! The kudos/comments/tumblr mentions all help motivate me so so much to keep focused on this story. I am so grateful for all of them. Please let me know your thoughts and I'll see you in the next chapter!


	24. Ash: Part 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this chapter has a bit of a more mature scene regarding a boo boo for a very good horse. It's not graphic but I want to give a heads up.

It’s the scream of the Fey girl and the panic musk her scent takes that tells him something has gone wrong.

It hasn’t been long.

He knows that, though it’s felt very long. How long it is supposed to take people to pull themselves together is a mystery to him. He’s been half listening to Squirrel as he tries to figure it out. The scream though, the scream tells him what a fool he was to leave her out there alone. Even if he knows she’s more capable than most. His mind immediately jumps to the Paladins, to his own failure if they found them. To the fact that she’s escaped once, if they recognize that they will make sure she doesn’t do it again. He moves automatically, but before he can run, the horses break through the camp.

There’s panic and blood on them as they struggle. Some are injured. Some are just covered. Automatically he shoves Squirrel behind him and grabs the young boy he sees out of the corner of his eye. The boy shrieks and he thinks he may have been too late before realizing that being grabbed by the Weeping Monk is frightening enough. But better to be alive and frightened than trampled.

“Keep him close!” He orders Squirrel, putting the boy near him, “Stay with me.”

He has to trust Squirrel to follow his orders. There’s so much chaos, it’s difficult to pick out individual horses. He needs Goliath here. He has none of his usual methods of signaling him in a subtle way. He can only put his fingers into his mouth and let out a sharp note. It’s not Goliath who appears but the other horse. The blonde, nameless mount tries to stop in time and fails, winding up nearly tipping over before lurching upwards. Lancelot just manages to grab the reins and coax the horse down. It tosses its head, spit flying, but with a little coaxing it gets its hooves under itself. It stops and then is quieter. It’s impressive, considering how little time he’s spent training the horse. But he’s grateful for the quick study.

Goliath isn’t there.

Suddenly there’s storm clouds in the sky and a great crack of lightening as Merlin makes his presence known. Lancelot feels the horse tense but it doesn’t balk like the others. The lightening is terrifying but it’s not as terrifying as what he can do. The boy Squirrel has with him is small, smaller even than Squirrel. Lancelot needs to get to the clearing but he cannot leave them here.

“Come here,” he orders, hefting Squirrel on first. The Fey boy whimpers in fear, “look at me,” the boy looks at him, “you remember me, I don’t harm the children who do as I say. Now come here.”

The boy goes pale but his ploy works and he comes closer, letting Lancelot haul him up onto the saddle. Lancelot mounts behind them and urges the horse forward and away from the chaos. It’s not far, the horse barely has time to put on any speed. He sees Goliath’s massive form tossing back and forth. He hands the reins to Squirrel, trusting the horse to be steady.

“Goliath,” he says the horse’s name aloud, “Goliath, be still.”

The command works even though it shouldn’t and Goliath freezes, turning his head blindly to the sound. Lancelot feels his stomach drop. One of Goliath’s eyes is covered in sap, sealing it shut. The other is stuck through with an arrow. Lancelot forced himself to asses the rest of the horse, but everything else looks fine. Or the rest of the blood doesn’t look like his. He puts his hand on Goliath’s nose and the horse stills further, though he whinnies his discomfort and fear. Lancelot tastes bile in the back of his throat. Goliath has never been just a thing to him, much as he has spent time wishing and pretending he was. He looks back at Squirrel who looks from the arrow to the boy. He digs his heels into the horse and walks him away, putting them behind a tree and out of view.

“I need you to be still,” he tells Goliath, “as still as possible.”

He puts the reins under his foot. Goliath huffs. Lancelot knows he has no business doing this, that it could easily result in something terrible. But if he doesn’t, Goliath suffers more. It’s easier this time with the sickening feeling, it’s not accompanied by the same powerlessness. He feels the change in his own energy but it’s different than the ways he’s accustom to conjuring the fire. He grips the arrow as lightly as possible. It only takes a moment for it to be ash. Goliath panics, how could he not? Lancelot pulls his hands away quickly but the horse’s eye is beyond repair. The flames in his hand are still there, with nowhere to redirect the energy. He doesn’t think as he puts his hand as close to Goliath’s wound as he dares. There’s a horrible, horrible smell of burned flesh as the wound is sealed shut. Lancelot looks around as the fire remains on his hands, like blood that he will never wash off. There’s nowhere safe for it to go, the energy has to go somewhere. Has to be used for something. Something not obvious, something—

The fire dampens.

Everything becomes dulled again and the scent of the Fey recedes. Not entirely, but it’s as though a scream has become a whisper. He knows Squirrel is there, his gift is strong but it’s as unpracticed as his. Still the boy’s interruption lets him focus enough to let the energy dissipate. It blows away. Squirrel pulls his own power back and the world sharpens again. He steps back and Lancelot immediately goes for Goliath.

“You’re alright,” he says to the horse. Goliath tosses his head, “you’re alright,” he repeats as Goliath pushes into his chest. Lancelot rubs his ears, “thank you,” he says to Squirrel.

“Is he going to be alright?”

“He’ll be fine,” he says, “come on.”

He picks up the reins and leads Goliath to where the other horse is. The younger boy on it has his face buried in his hands and is counting under his breath. It’s a smart idea. Lancelot looks at the field. There’s far more arrows. He can see at least two horses that are dead. His fingers tighten on Goliath’s reins. Lancelot closes his eyes and breathes in. He can recall Pym’s scent from memory. He smells it on the saddle, on the amulet around his neck. It’s the bright, pure scent that he focuses on immediately. But when he turns in that direction, he feels Goliath’s breath on him. Gently he pulls back Goliath’s lips. There’s red on his teeth. He reaches into his mouth and pulls out a scrap of fabric. It’s wet and covered with the scent of Goliath’s mouth, but his abilities pick out Pym’s scent.

“Stay here,” he orders both of them, moving into the meadow.

The scent isn’t changing as he moves, she’s not here. His heart relaxes and then tightens. He can smell her blood and it’s fresh, but not the rest of her. She’s not here. He follows it to a stain of it across the ground, droplets curving out as though she’s been picked up. Someone’s carried her off. He’s seen the kind of blood pattern before. Too many times. He follows the blood drops until he comes to a patch of grass. Her scent is heavier here, there’s more blood, then the blood is gone. He can piece together that she was carried, put down and her wound was tied off to not leave a trail. He can see the guards they put out, all dead. But not by the same arrows. Rather by the bruising around their necks. Pym is alive, she has to be. The sword marks look Paladin but the arrows are different. It doesn’t matter, if the Paladins saw them talking—

“That bitch!”

He turns at the Red Spear’s bellow and returns just in time to see her drive an axe into a tree, splitting the arrow. It doesn’t seem to be enough because she yells again and strikes the tree. Some of the other Fey have followed, flanked by ones that are to guard them. They look at him and he nods to indicate where the bodies of their fallen are. They look at him with suspicion but no-one gives him a wider berth as they move to collect their dead. He moves towards the Red Spear. The familiarity of the arrows hits him as he looks closer. They’re Raider arrows. He recognizes the dark wood and the black fletching. He can out think the Paladins. But the Raiders—he wants to kick himself. The Raiders are not what he would have expected to find them.

“Where is she?!” The Red Spear roars, coming over to him.

“Blood stops over there,” he says, “I can track her.”

“Over water? They’re headed for the sea,” he frowns, “back to Cumber. They’re taking my healer back to Cumber,” she bares her teeth, “I’ll have her head for this!”

The Red Spear stalks off. Lancelot looks back at the way that he came, watching the Fey cart off their dead. He itches to run until he catches her. But the head start on horseback puts him at a disadvantage. He needs to ride to have any hope of catching them before they make it to the sea. Squirrel looks at him anxiously. He looks at Goliath whose gone back to grazing, as though everything is alright in the world. He raises his head, even though Lancelot’s standing on his blind side.

“Are you going after her?”

“Yes,” he says.

“You won’t catch them if they make it to the sea,” The Red Spear says.

“Then I’ll catch them before they do that,” he shoots back, looking up at Squirrel, “you need to stay here with Goliath.”

“The hell I am,” he says. The scared Fey boy behind him gasps, “it’s alright,” Squirrel says before focusing back on Lancelot, “I’m just going to follow you if you say no.”

“You’re not taking on the Raiders—“ The Red Spear starts.

“Enough!” Lancelot silences all of them with one sharp word. Frustration spikes through him but he doesn’t let it linger. For once he can take advantage of the reputation he’s got, “I’m going after her. We’ll catch up with you.”

The Red Spear bares her teeth but his patience has gone. He glares back at her, daring her to tell him he’s not going to do something he absolutely is. No amount of Raiders or Fey or Paladins are going to stop him from making sure that Pym does not end up with more guilt on her soul for what she has to do to escape. It’s not something he’s willing to entertain.

“We need to keep moving,” Arthur breaks in, his voice calm. Calmer than Lancelot thinks it has any right to be, “if they took Pym to get to either of you, she’s not the one they’re after. They’ll take more. Our best chance is to keep moving and get to where we are going.”

The Red Spear tightens her grip on her blade and steps forward. Arthur is smarter than Lancelot gave him credit for when he raises his hands.

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

“Speak for yourself or keep your mouth shut,” she snaps and turns to Lancelot. He’s not used to people invading his space in the way that she does, but he refuses to back down. He may not be used to that but he’s used to holding his own line, even if it’s just in terms of his pride as a fighter, “I want Eydis’ death to hurt,” she says, “badly.”

He inclines his head in acknowledgment. She stares him down for a moment longer and then moves back. He walks over to the horse and helps the younger Fey boy down. For once the boy doesn’t look petrified for him. He wavers for a moment before he looks up at Lancelot, dragging his gaze to him.

“My name’s Bors,” he says.

Lancelot ignores the urge to just keep moving and nods in acknowledgment. Bors runs off to the other Fey. Lancelot looks at Squirrel who glares back at him, raising up his hand in a very unsubtle reminder that as much as he would like him back and safe, if Lancelot wants to keep his secrets he may actually need him. But his secrets are worthless if it gets Squirrel or Pym killed.

“I need you stay here with Goliath.”

“That’s a stupid excuse,” Squirrel says.

“I need you here,” Arthur says, surprising them both, “someone needs to leave enough of a trail for him to follow without letting the others find our presence.”

Squirrel looks down, still not convinced.

“You would be useful but I cannot watch you and get Pym out,” he says, “stay with Goliath. Do as Arthur says. We’ll ride together soon enough.”

Squirrel grudgingly nods and lets Lancelot help him get on Goliath. He mounts the other horse, looking at Arthur. He doesn’t understand the man’s tendency to help. But he’s grateful for it. Between him and the Red Spear, he knows that Squirrel will be safe. Regardless of what happens. He regrets leaving them both behind but he knows that this is the best chance he has at saving her. What he’s not expecting is for one of Arthur’s men to show up and hand him a pair of swords which he passes to Lancelot.

“Why?” Lancelot asks, not sure what he’s referring to.

“Nimue made me swear to get them somewhere safe, not go after her,” he says, “I couldn’t save her from the Paladins. Not without betraying her. Maybe you’ll be able to do what I could not.”

It’s a very strange thing to feel something like respect for someone he’s bested. It’s another thing that he will have to think about after he gets Pym back. He pulls the amulet off of his neck and hands it to Squirrel.

“Wear it until we get back,” he tells him.

He guides the horse to the edge of the clearing and closes his eyes. He needed to take the amulet off since it is heavy with Pym’s scent. It makes her more difficult to track if it’s always in his nose after he’s picked it up. He focuses and is able to get the general direction that she’s gone.

He digs his heels into the horse and takes off after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot tell you how many times I went back and forth on Squirrel coming along, but ultimately it seemed irresponsible in the context of this. But I promise the rest of them will be there soon. In some way, shape or form. Not spoiling anything.
> 
> Feedback is love! I adore squealing with everyone while I torture all of us with cliff hangers and dramatics. There's an upcoming scene that popped into my head when I first thought of this fic and I am very excited to have you all read it. Let me know what you think! Onwards!


	25. Ash: Part 25

She wakes up mid air.

There’s hands high around her ribcage and she feels herself being dragged off a horse. Her first thought is that maybe she’s already being rescued, but the smells are all wrong and the hands that grip her are full of rings. One of them brushes against her bare skin carelessly and she bites down on her lip to keep from crying out at the burning.

“Be careful! She’s no good to us if she’s dead,” a guttural voice snarls.

“It’s just a burn.”

She feels her wrists being handled and realizes that her manacles are probably covered iron. Her knot magic isn’t going to be able to get them off. Not like the ropes. Instead she focuses on laying as still as possible so that they think she’s still unconscious. The more she gets her wits about her, the better off she’ll be. If she curves her neck just right, the hood bows out. She can see the thick black of their boots and the studded stirrups they use. Her mind drags to Goliath and she can feel the pain in her arm. If she tries to move her mouth up she can feel the dried blood. She hopes the horse is alright.

Pym looks around for a flash of red, but it’s not there. Another horse walks into view, but their rider just wears black. But this black is long. It’s not the rough leather that the others are wearing, fit for combat. Breathing in the fresh air helps even as the blood starts rushing to her head. She closes her eyes as her head is jerked up and the hood is pulled off. She’s never been a good liar and even something like lying to be asleep is impossible. A gloved hand grips her chin and then pain explodes across her face. She opens her eyes and looks into the gold face. She’s only seen it once, right before the green fire took it, but Squirrel has told her stories. Beyond the gold face she can see others, interspersed with Raiders.

“She’s not to harmed,” one of the Raiders says, “we have orders.”

  
“Your orders mean nothing. We answer to God,” the gold masked one says in a voice so emotionless that it sends ice through her veins.

“Well we answer to Cumber the Ice King,” the Raider says, “and unless your God wants to show up and explain to him why his orders haven’t been followed, I’d keep your hands off her.”

She’s dropped back across the saddle, her head jarring with the impact. The party moves forward. They are well trained, that much is clear. It’s not the slow pace of the group that she was a part of, these are all trained warriors. There’s no young ones or untrained and the group is small. They are covering ground fast. The iron keeps her from being any kind of useful with her magic. She’s never thought of her magic as particularly impressive but being without it makes her feel more vulnerable. Her braid dangles temptingly close, but when she reaches towards it she sees one of the gold masks snap towards her. There’s no subtle way to do it. But she reaches for the braid purposefully and the party grounds to a halt. This time when they backhand her, she bites the inside of her lip.

“Hey!”

“Don’t do that again,” the gold mask orders, “she’s trying to leave a trail.”

They resume their pace and her heart pounds. All she’s seen from the gold masked figures is defeat. She doesn’t expect them to be so vicious. She makes a whimper and hangs her head. When no-one is looking, she parts her lips and lets the smallest drop of blood she can manage fall.

Lancelot has never seemed to need a lot to track.

She knew that before she ever thought she would be relying on it. She doesn’t consider that maybe he’s stayed with the others. That maybe he’s done the sensible thing. He’s a tracker. He’s going to track her. And he’s already been away from the group for most of the day. Guilt churns through her. She knows Lancelot is coming for her, despite their argument in the woods. Despite the fact that Goliath may be hurt. If the one thing he truly cares about dies without him because he’s chasing after her when her captors have made the decision to keep her alive—she doesn’t know if she can stand that thought. But she can make it easier for him to find her.

The air takes on the smell of salt and smoke and suddenly her faith in being kept alive weakens.

They’ve burned the Red Spear’s ships.

Maybe the men she left behind got out. They can always get new ships. But for some reason the thought of yet another place she felt at home going up in flames makes her eyes burn and her throat tighten. She realizes that the idea of staying with the Red Spear and having adventures really was going to wind up being her ultimate choice. Adventure over safety. She can practically hear her mother’s surprised laugh. She had always talked about staying close, about being safe. The idea of her willingly throwing herself into something else would make anyone who knew her before laugh. Even Nimue, though she’d probably get on board faster than most. She’d probably be proud too.

Pym doesn’t feel especially brave as they start to pick up speed though. As the trees start to fall away and the smoke gets thicker and finally the beach with the burning ships comes into view. Behind them there are two ships. It’s like the Church and the Raiders are observing the destruction of yet another one of her homes. The Raider slows his horse and the gold masked one comes up besides her and before Pym can think any of this through, she spits the blood onto the gold mask.

“God is going to send you to Hell,” she tells the gold mask and looks at the Raider, “and Guinevere is going to skewer you like a fish!”

Another one drags her off the horse before either of them can strike her, apparently remembering the orders he’s been given. She squirms against the Raider’s grip before he shoves her into the embrace of a gold masked figure. Even the difference in their build is apparent. There’s something lean and cruel about the way the gold masked man handles her. When he grips her arms, he finds some place that makes spots dance in front of her eyes. He pulls her along towards the boats. She looks back to see the Raider she said would be skewered dismount and turn towards the forest.

Vines explode through the man, lifting him up and ripping him in two.

The beach erupts into chaos.

The guard holding her shoves her aside to draw his sword. She hits the sand and scrambles to her feet. The vines slice through him as well. It only takes a moment before she starts running towards them.

It’s illogical to run back into the woods, but the vines that lash through the air are the better way to die, as far as she can tell. She could try swimming out but without her hands she knows she won’t make it far. Someone grabs at her ankle and she rips her foot free, pausing only long enough to kick her boot into the gold mask as hard as she can. Pain crunches through her toes but it’s worth it as she takes off into the woods. If she gets far enough away she can think about how to get back where she came from and how to avoid whatever is going on.

The arm grabs her waist and the sword presses to her throat. She sees gold out of the corner of her eye and her stomach drops further. They are the group that has no reason to keep her alive. They spin her around and the whiplash adds another injury as they wrench her head back. 

“Don’t come any closer,” the voice spits, though there’s a note of fright in it, “I’ll kill her like I killed the Wolf-Blood Witch!”

“Then she’ll be fine,” Nimue spits, “let her go.”

Pym can’t see her but her heart jumps at the sound of her friend’s voice. Any lingering doubt is erased, even though it was never much to begin with. Nimue has always been the strongest of them. Pym can’t see her but she can feel the grass start to whisper. Something is happening. She tries to push away but Iris pulls her painfully closer and drags the blade across her collarbone before shoving it against her neck. Letting her go means death. She digs her heels in as Iris tries to drag her backwards, she’s bigger than the girl. Though not by much. She feels vines grow and wrap around her feet, as though the very earth is trying to keep her there. Iris slices them and puts the blade back, this time breaking the skin of her neck.

“Stop or I’ll cut her throat!” She orders, backing up against the nearest tree so her back is protected, “You’re next Wolf Blood! I’ll kill—“

An arrow sinks through her neck.

Pym just manages to grab her wrist before the blade can cut her throat as Iris collapses. The iron burns against her skin as the shackles move. The sword drops and Iris’s hand grabs blindly at hers. Pym shifts her grip, lowering the dying girl to the ground. The arrow makes it impossible for her to breathe. Pym holds her hand as she chokes and then goes still. She grip her limp fingers for a moment longer, until she’s sure. Just to be absolutely certain, she pulls back the mask to reveal blank eyes and lips that are wet with blood. She touches under Iris’ nose but feels no breath on her skin. She’s dead. At the sound of another arrow from a different direction, Pym remembers she’s still in the middle of a battlefield and staggers up, almost bumping heads with Nimue.

Nimue looks the same superficially. There’s something in her eyes that is new, but Pym imagines that she looks different as well. Even in the midst of all that’s going on, Pym finds herself grinning at the sight of her old friend. Nimue’s face splits into one as well and she reaches to embrace her.

“Be careful!” Pym cries, yanking her hands away before Nimue can fully embrace her, “it’s iron.”

“Right,” Nimue says, the hurt turning to anger at the ones who put her in it, “of course—“

“We’ll hug later,” Pym assures her.

Nimue grins again in the middle of battle and something in Pym’s heart jumps with the pure joy. Nimue quickly pulls the covering over Pym’s wrists and then picks up the dropped sword as lightening cracks the sky, joining the vines that hold the others back.

“Your father found us,” Pym offers, “so did Morgana.”

“I brought Gawain back to life,” Nimue says, motioning to the vines. Pym looks at her in surprise, “he’ll meet us where it’s safe. Come on. We need to find cover.”

She can’t see Lancelot but she has to trust that he’s there. She doesn’t know anyone else who could have made the shot he did. Staying alive is the most important thing. Nimue leads her away from the battle. Nimue has always been better with the forest, more in tune with it. But when Pym steps on the net, she’s still disappointed as it snaps around her and hauls her up. Nimue turns as she shoots upwards. She’s not surprised when two gold masked guards pull her up. She looks down to see it’s another trap, like the one they laid for Lancelot.

“Run!” Pym screams down to her before one of them claps a hand over her mouth.

Nimue looks up to see them with their bows drawn. Vines spiral out of the ground and cover her as they loose their arrows. Pym tries to get free but they hold her tight as they shoot at the friend she just got back. Pym can’t watch her die, not like this. She shoves and struggles and manages to break their grip, though there’s nowhere for her to go.

A familiar arrow hits one of them just below the mask at a steep angle. Pym has no time to look as she hears the tree start to crack in a chillingly familiar way. The only thing that she can do is to throw herself backwards and pray she’s not about to wind up splattered on the ground. The tree splits apart in a terrifying crack of green that makes her vision turn white. When she lands in someone’s arms, it’s hard to see anything. But she hears Nimue’s shriek of fury and the horse backs up as a wall of something flies ups.

“Stop!” She cries, “Nimue stop!” She turns towards him, “Lancelot?”

“Yes,” he says tightly and something in her relaxes.

“It’s alright,” she says to Nimue, blinking though all it seems to do is make her eyes water more, “he’s with us.”

“What?” Nimue says.

“He’s with us,” she repeats.

There’s the sound of ripping fabric.

“Close your eyes,” Lancelot says. He winds the fabric around her eyes, “they need to rest.”

“We need to get out of here,” she shoots back, “Nimue I promise I’ll explain but we need to get out of here. He needs to come with us.”

She hears Lancelot sharply inhale and tense. There’s a sound of something collecting together. Amidst the smoke and blood, she can smell something sweet. Like summer flowers. There’s a sound like a rock is walking across it but it sharpens into an almost metallic clank.

“It’s alright,” a voice says, one that’s familiar and new at the same time. It’s a combination of a summer breeze and Gawain’s voice, “have you found your way home, brother?”

Lancelot gestures with his head but Pym can’t see what he does. She can hear Nimue's sharp inhale but she cannot interpret that either.

“Come this way,” the thing that sounds like Gawain and not Gawain says, “and be careful, she’s wearing iron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! You all know how much I love your comments and kudos and Tumblr stuff. It keeps me so motivated on this fic and getting out the frequent updates we're all enjoying. Thank you so so much. I'll see you in the next chapter!


	26. Ash: Part 26

Of all the things he’s expecting to happen, finding the things that were once Nimue and Gawain isn’t one of them.

They aren’t themselves, not in the way that they were. Their scents are different. The earthy tones are dampened, Nimue now smells of sea and storm and the way that the water does when it meets stones. Gawain smells of flowers and trees, but there’s death there as well. He’s smelled enough dead Fey to recognize it. They’ve led them a cave and though he wants to just race back to the group, leading the two of them there doesn’t seem like the smartest plan. He also has no intention of riding back and risking injuring Pym further. Her cheek and lip are swollen, there’s several shallow cuts he can see on her neck and a burn that he knows is from the iron. But he’s mostly concerned with her eyes.

“I’ll help you down,” he tells her and dismounts, easing her off the horse and helping her down.

She takes a step forward and hisses through her teeth. He grips her arm and helps shoulder her weight. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Nimue’s eyes narrow. He isn’t sure if it is the cloak or if his hair has moved to reveal the Cross, but something has tipped her off to his previous allegiance. He doesn’t know if she’s aware of the extent of his involvement, the fact that he hasn’t been run through with vines would suggest she is not. But while he has his guts inside him, he focuses on keeping Pym’s weight off her ankle. Though she’s blinded, she seems to realize everyone’s focused on her.

“I kicked one of those masked people in the face,” she explains, “then I kept running on it.”

“I’ll heal you,” Nimue says.

“We need to clear the beach first,” Gawain says.

“It will only take a moment!” Nimue snaps. The foliage around them trembles and she clenches her fists.

“Nimue I’m okay,” Pym speaks up, “as long as I’m not walking on my ankle, none of it hurts badly,” Nimue looks at her and though she can’t see, Pym smiles, “you should go help Gawain clear the beach. It’s not safe for everyone else while they’re here. I can hold on until you get back.”

Nimue hesitates and Lancelot feels his grip tighten slightly on Pym’s arm. The kind of power that Nimue’s displaying is unlike anything he’s seen. But he recognizes the uncontrolled nature of it. He’s put Pym through too many close calls today. The idea of risking that kind of power going into her is not one he’s prepared to entertain. It’s Gawain who steps in and coaxes Nimue back.

“She said she would be alright,” he says.

“I’m not leaving her with him!” Nimue snaps, moving back from Gawain and looking at Lancelot, “he should come with us.”

He’s very used to accepting orders. But some dig into a part of him that he has always sought to suppress. Orders like letting Brother Salt have Squirrel. Or Nimue drag him away to leave Pym unprotected. That isn’t happening again for a long time. Not when she was kidnapped while he was so close.

“Nimue—“ Gawain starts.

“His name’s Lancelot,” Pym cuts in, “Squirrel brought him to me back on the Coast. He’s been traveling with us since. He’s Squirrel’s squire,” she explains, “those Raiders took me after I sent him back to the group to check on Squirrel. After I got upset at him for not telling me he was riding alone,” she leans against his arm, “I bit my lip to leave a trail for him so he’d find me as quickly as he did. But that’s the longest we’ve been apart since the Coast.”

Nimue and Gawain’s jaws are both slackened. When he hears the story like that, he can understand why. He’s painfully aware of how his appearance is still very much that of his old life. If one just saw him, it would be difficult to see the difference. He looks over at Gawain or the thing that he has become. He closes his mouth and tightens his jaw and looks from them to Nimue.

“If he is planning to take her back to the Paladins, we’ll see them on the beach—“

“Close us in,” Lancelot cuts him off. Everyone looks at them, “we’ll be in the cave when you return.”

Nimue hesitates and then looks at him.

“If you hurt her—“

“He isn’t going to hurt me,” Pym cuts in.

Nimue presses her lips together in disgust and takes a few paces back. Grass and vines and trees grow up and join together, sealing them off. The smell of the Fey magic makes his stomach roll but he shoves the nausea aside. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t sure if Pym is leaning on him because she’s hurt or to show she trusts him to Nimue, but either way the moment they are gone he helps her over to the wall of the cave where there’s enough light to see but more shadows. He gets her back against the wall and helps her sit down.

“Is Goliath alright?” She asks abruptly, “and everyone else?”

“They killed the guards on the outskirts,” he says, “a few horses as well. They caused a stampede. It was mostly supplies that were lost,” he explains, “Goliath was injured but he’ll be alright.”

“He saved my life,” she says, “he pulled me down. I told him to run. I was hoping he would find you.”

“He tried,” he says, “They put an arrow through his eye,” he admits. Pym inhales sharply, “I fixed it. He’ll be alright. Squirrel is with him.”

“I bet he loved you telling him to stay,” she says, “I can take a look when we get back. I had a Raider who lost his eye,” she hesitates a moment and then leans forward, “I’m not blind am I?”

“No,” he says, his voice sharp and quick. She draws back slightly at the tone. He takes a breath and tries again, “it’s just the glare.”

“Like looking at the sun on the water for too long,” she says, relaxing backwards, “they kept me under the deck for a lot of it, but when I went up I nearly blinded myself,” she smiles, “it seems to be a theme.”

“Your eyes will be fine,” he repeats, “what else?”

“Nothing life threatening,” she says. Even without her eyes she seems to know that’s not a good answer, “my arm, the cuts on my neck, they were wearing iron so I have a few burns. I made them hit me—“

“Why?” He cuts in.

“It was the only way I could think of to leave a trail,” she says, “I didn’t want you to waste time looking if you were coming after me while Goliath was hurt.”

She seems one step ahead of his emotions sometimes, but he’s grateful she can’t see the surprise on his face. He doubted that she was aware of his single minded focus on getting to her, right up until he found the drops of blood that she left. It made the trail laughably easy to follow, though the drops were too small to be concerned she was bleeding without them noticing. It was a smart idea, but the swelling of her cheek irritates him. Getting hurt is a part of life, especially the lives they are living. Seeing a harmless mark shouldn’t irritate him the way that it does.

“I found your trail,” he says, “you made it easy to track you.”

“Good,” she says, perking up at her plan having worked. Though as far as he’s seen, the vast majority of her plans seem to work as she wishes them to, “my eyes and my ankle are the only other things. But I’m fine,” she adds.

“Let me see your ankle,” he says.

She nods and he brings her leg into his lap. Lancelot pushes her skirt up to get to the top of her boots. She inhales sharply as he grips her thigh and tries to bite her lip before remembering that’s a foolish idea. She doesn’t tell him she’s injured. He undoes the lacing at the top of her boot and loosens it down her shin, guiding the boot off and supporting her ankle. He grips her foot gently and she makes an odd sound.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not what you’re doing right now,” she says, “my feet are ticklish. So’s behind my leg,” he raises an eyebrow, “don’t tell me, the ticklish spots are signs of my evilness.”

“Keep your eyes closed,” he says.

“They are,” she replies, “I don’t need to see your face to know what expression you’re wearing.” 

“I’ve noticed,” he comments, turning her ankle gently, “push against my hand,” he says. She does, “it’s not broken.”

“That’s a relief,” she remarks, “I wouldn’t think someone who knows how to heal would be good at checking like this,” she adds, something almost shy in her voice.

  
He understands her confusion. But between the Paladin’s loathing of touching him and his focus on keeping the Fire from them, he had to learn to judge which injuries could be healed their way and which could be healed in his own way. Even his healing ability is cobbled together from trial and error. How much energy to take, how much was needed for which injury, all of it was something he had to learn himself. Out of sight from the others. Though the only Fey talent that Father or any of them found use in was his tracking. Even the healing, once they learned of it, was forbidden. It was a defiance of God’s will. A mark against his soul.

“I had to judge which injuries were worth healing,” he says, “and which were worth being seen by the healers.”

She turns her head down. He’s used to her ability to read him, but it’s surprising how easily he knows the expression on her face. Even without her being able to show it.

“Let me see your eyes.”

She leans forward and he undoes the makeshift bandage. She blinks a few times in the dim light. Her eyes are red and irritated, but they focus on him. Relief is naked on her face. He finds he can breathe a bit easier as well. His lack of experience with his own Fire is becoming more of a problem. He’s never had someone come close and survive or look at it like she did.

“Well that’s a relief,” she remarks with a quick smile, “you look worried,” he looks up at her, “I’m alright,” she says again, “they said they weren’t going to kill me—“

“They don’t always speak the truth,” he says.

“I thought lying was a sin,” she says.

He knows she’s trying to tease him but his humor is gone. Now that she’s fine he can see his failure laid out. He should have known that the Paladins and the Ice King would continue to work together, that a common enemy would bind everyone. Covering them from the Paladins was one thing, but he had miscalculated how good Cumber’s people were at tracking. The failure is unacceptable. The consequences are on him. If his gifts aren’t used to aide people then what is the good of them? Of him? He’s just another abomination. His skin itches to repent. As he knows he should. For the deaths, for Goliath, for her being captured, for all of his failures.

She wiggles her foot, drawing his attention back to her. Her reddened eyes scan his face and he has to fight the urge to pull his hood up and turn from the inspection. 

“I’m alright,” she repeats.

“You’re hurt.”

“Superficially,” she says, “and only until Nimue gets back to heal me. Then we can go back to the others.”

She turns as the walls sealing them in vanish as Nimue and Gawain appear. The forest has gone quiet. Nimue wastes no time in hurrying forward. Lancelot ignores the disappointment that curdles in his mouth. Nimue shoots him a look at the sight of Pym’s boot being off. He moves her leg off his thigh, gently placing it on the ground. Pym opens her mouth but he gets up and steps away, sensing that his presence is not wanted. If it helps Nimue focus her magic on healing Pym, he’s willing to give them space. Though stepping out of the cave brings him face to face with what the Green Knight has become. He’s making a soft sound to the horse who seems pleased at his presence.

“This is your horse,” Lancelot realizes aloud.

“I have no horses anymore,” Gawain replies, his voice echoing, “but I foaled him. Started training him. He was to be my new charger. When I had use for such things.”

The horses ease with combat and quick learning makes far more sense if he was to be Gawain’s new charger. Arthur shoved the horse at him, but he doesn’t know how it came to him. If it was by accident or something more. It seems like blasphemy that he should be fitted into the roles. Like the betrayal of the Knight knows no bounds. But Gawain seems not upset by any of the things that he’s learned. He seems at peace. Lancelot would say that perhaps he did not have use for things such as grudges, but the memory of the vines ripping through the Paladins and the Raiders tells him that isn’t true. The idea that Gawain would accept this isn’t on he understands.

“He did well,” Gawain says, “you’ve been training him along your own,” he smiles, “even as enemies I was impressed with your horse.”

“I was training him to give to Squirrel,” he says. Gawain looks surprised, “he’ll need a horse.”

“He’ll need one who can put up with his knack for trouble,” Gawain says. Lancelot nods, “he seems fit for the job.”

“He will be.”

The Green Knight strokes down the horse’s forehead again and looks at Lancelot. It’s almost automatic to stand as he was taught when Father or the Abbots would inspect him. The pity that flashes across Gawain’s face cuts in a way that does nothing to alleviate the itch. Salvation is in the cuts on his flesh, cuts that show penance. Cuts that will save his soul. The litanies still tumble through his head, no matter how much he knows they are folly. No matter how he knows that the man who said them was a liar and is dead. It’s as though the have taken a life of their own.

“You are among friends, brother,” Gawain says.

“I am not,” he refutes. Gawain’s look goes from disappointed to softer and Lancelot finds he needs to swallow back bile, “you were right about what I have done.”

“I was also right about them needing you,” Gawain says, “she would not be alive if not for you.”

He thinks of Pym getting herself hurt to leave a trail and having the sense to keep Iris from cutting her throat. He thinks of Squirrel throwing the rock to allow him a chance to get his strength back. Of all the things that they have done with no fighting skill between them. For all that he can fight, the events of today still occurred. Fey were lost, Pym was captured, the list repeats.

“That isn’t true,” he says, “she escaped before.”

Gawain opens his mouth and then goes silent. Lancelot doesn’t like the look that appears on his face. Some kind of understanding. But he wishes it back when the kindness returns.

“You are among friends,” he says, “in time you will see it.”

He opens his mouth to reply but both are distracted by the raised voices that come from the cave. Frustration crosses Gawain’s face and he looks back to where he came. Lancelot has faith that the beach has been cleared by their powers, but he still drops his hand to the sword and shifts so he can see anyone who might be coming. They both look at the cave to see Pym come striding out. She’s fully healed and her face is flushed with anger. Nimue comes after her, angry as well. Lancelot looks at Gawain who seems to have no better grasp on the situation than he does.

“I’ve been healed by our great Fey Queen,” Pym snaps. Nimue throws her hands up, “shall we return on foot or will your magic take us there? Your Majesty?”

“Well since your loyalties are elsewhere, why don’t you decide?” Nimue shoots back.

“Both of you stop!” Gawain says, his voice echoing. Nimue is the Queen and Pym is not someone Lancelot would cross, but they both seem to realize the foolishness of what they’re doing, “we need to rejoin the others. This argument can wait.”

“You’re right,” Nimue says, looking upwards, “Merlin! We’re ready!”

The ground around them glows white. The smell that takes the air something beyond even what he has seen today. It’s always been faintly on Merlin, like a hint of what he once was. Even now it’s much stronger being in the center of it. Notes of it are in Nimue’s power, he realizes. He focuses on that. Nimue, Pym, the horse and Gawain close their eyes. In the brightness, Pym’s hand grabs his. 

There’s a lurching feeling and then they are in a different part of the forest with the rest of the group that they left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just checked my writing Tumblr and AtmaVichar made an another amazing piece of fan art that I've got que-ed up. I'm beyond humbled that my work was inspiring and your artwork is so beautiful. Thank you for drawing it!
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I was very excited about this chapter (like every chapter) but I think it couldn't just be fluff for where they are (though I am dying for the day when it is). Your feedback helps me stay so motivated. Feedback is love and I will see you in the next chapter!


	27. Ash: Part 27

The celebration is inevitable.

Pym doesn’t dare say that they should keep moving, that this is a terrible idea. After everything that has happened, people want to celebrate the return of their Queen. Merlin has his daughter back, though he seems to be using that as a reason to get drunk. And Arthur—Arthur seems to have a great weight lifted off him. There’s even some light in Morgana, as if the joy of her friend’s return has pulled her back towards the living. And Squirrel is overjoyed. Not just at having Nimue back but at having Gawain there. The revelry isn’t loud, but it’s the most she’s seen people smile since, well, the last time that Nimue was with them.

Which makes her feel all the worse for not being overjoyed.

“You were right,” Morgana says, pressing a drink into her hand, “you always knew—“

“I’ve just known her longer,” Pym assures her, “I don’t think you believed she was dead in your heart.”

By the time the third cup is placed into her hand, Pym realizes she’s feeling rather alright about everything. She also realizes she’s probably going to start to be too open with her words. She’s caused enough trouble getting herself kidnapped again. She picks up two of the cups and decides to go visit the horses. Though she’s already checked Goliath’s eye. Lancelot did a good job with what he had. But she was able to bandage the wound and put something on it to help any lingering pain. Bandaging a horse had been a new experience but Lancelot had laid a hand on Goliath and the horse had been perfectly still. She’s not surprised when she finds Lancelot brushing the horse, speaking to him softly while on his blind side.

“I have something for you,” she says. He turns and looks her up and down, his eyes settling on the cups, “you can finish. But you really should try this.”

“What is it?” He asks.

“It’s ambrosia,” she says, “it’s a Fey drink.”

He puts something on his belt takes the cup from her, putting his nose to it first. She means to warn him but the words don’t come out in time. He pulls back sharply, surprised at the bubbles. He’s almost cautious when he takes a sip. She barely remembers her first time drinking it, but she imagines he’s never had it before. It’s sweeter and bubblier than the stuff the Raiders drink, but it’s strong as well. She’s not sure if it’s the sweetness or the bubbles that catch him off guard but the surprised look on his face grows worse. She coughs to hide her amusement, not wanting him to feel bad. But it doesn’t work.

“I’m sorry, it’s easier after the first glass,” she promises.

“It’s strange,” he says. But he takes another mouthful, “but it’s familiar.”

“Maybe you had it before,” she offers. She looks at the shadow that’s passed across his face as he tries to remember, “unless the Ash Folk young ones didn’t do things like sneak ambrosia.”

“How young were you?”

“Probably around Squirrel’s age,” she admits, “I was sick to my stomach,” she looks at him, “so what do Paladins drink?”

“Watered wine,” he says. She pulls a face of disgust, “we don’t drink it for pleasure,” he points out.

“You don’t claim to do anything for pleasure,” Pym remarks.

Lancelot gives her a dry look. She knows it’s the soul they care about, not the body. Which is ironic because she’s seen them do plenty of terrible things to bodies. But she’s become very aware that there’s a level of hypocrisy in the church. Then she thinks of the Fey and their judgement despite claiming all are brothers and she thinks that there’s a similarity there she’s not entirely comfortable with.

“Did it ever bother you that they would do things for pleasure?” She asks curiously.

“No,” he says, “the suffering was necessary for what I was, what I had done,” he tells her, “and the other thing.”

“Was that your idea or theirs?”

He is quiet for a moment and she’s thinks it’s probably not a question that he wants to answer. But after another, he takes a drink and looks about as though the trees might have an answer.

“I don’t know,” he admits, “their beliefs fit together with what I understood,” he says, “it was my idea,” he settles on finally, “everything was to keep someone’s soul from hellfire, it made sense that I would need it in its purest form.”

It’s a horrible thing to think. But the worst of it is she can see the logic that he would have as a boy. Bodily harm kept him from making fire, fire was evil, it fits together very well. She wishes that she could blame it on the Paladins but she imagines if they knew what he could do, their stories would have been very different. She’s yet to see any of them show restraint when it comes to eliminating the Fey. What they could do with that Fire, she thinks that there would be none left. Even here among people who are more accepting, he’s already had to use it several times without anyone finding out. She can see why he would need to keep it discrete.

“You know you could have wiped us out with it,” she says softly, “but for all you thinks it’s evil, I’ve only actually ever seen you use it to save Fey,” Goliath whinnies, “and horses. Fey and horses.”

He looks at Goliath and the bandages where his eye was. The horse seems fine. He’s already gone back to eating the grass and doesn’t seem perturbed by his lack of vision. She remembers the Raider who lost his eye, he returned up to deck to the fighting as soon as she had finished bandaging him up. Even though it seemed like something that needed to be rested. None of the Raiders liked to rest. She thinks Goliath would have made a good Raider. Actually they both probably would have.

“It was still killing,” he says. She looks at the dark look on his face, “it wasn’t supposed to be used like that,” he explains, “I’ve spent my life hiding it, like I was supposed to.”

“You were proud of that,” she realizes aloud.

He looks away but the color on his cheeks tells her the answer. His entire life seems to have been built around shame at his Fey identity and abilities. The narrative the Paladins forced on him fit eerily well with it. She doesn’t want to be sympathetic to what he’s told her, but she understands grasping at a fragment of a lost home. Far, far too well. Her family didn’t die keeping any secrets. Not like his. They chose to burn rather than risk the Fire falling into anyone’s hands. Especially the Paladins, but considering how Fey Fire is whispered about and how long gone the Ash Folk were thought to be, she knows keeping it from the other Fey was something also worth dying for.

“Well I can’t speak for Goliath, but I’ve kept my mouth shut. So has Squirrel,” he looks back at her, “we’re not going to tell.”

“You may need to,” he says, “if Squirrel becomes Gawain’s Squire—“

“You can’t be serious!” She says, “I won’t need to and Squirrel isn’t doing that.”

“He should,” he says, “Gawain can teach him to be a Fey Knight.”

“Didn’t you defeat Gawain?”

“There’s more to a Knight than combat,” he says.

“Not right now there isn’t,” she counters, “and even if he did, he wouldn’t betray you like that.”

“It isn’t about betrayal,” he says. She raises an eyebrow and ignores his frustration as he takes another drink, “a Squire has to be loyal above all else to the Knight he serves.”

“Thinking your Knight is going to betray you doesn’t seem very loyal to me,” she says.

He presses his lips together. She’s used to dealing with stubborn people who could kill her in any manner of ways. Besides she doubts any will ever be as terrifying as the Red Spear telling her if her ale went sour she was going to be thrown overboard. At the very least the other deaths she’s been threatened with are quicker. Even with his frustration though, there’s something almost vulnerable in his expression. Gloomy and vulnerable. Even if she doesn’t blame him for what happened, it’s clear that he still blames himself and no amount of reassurance is going to fix that. Impossibly high standards seem to be part of being a Paladin, but unlike the rest of them he doesn’t seem to have the ego to warp them.

“Not that I’m an expert on the finer points of being a Fey Knight, but I think you can teach Squirrel about being more than just a fighter,” she says.

“I’m not either,” he says finally. She gives him a questioning look, “not an expert on being a Fey Knight.”

She laughs because it’s true, neither of them has any knowledge on the finer points of it. It’s a simple fact. He was never given the chance and being a Knight was never something that crossed her mind. When she opens her mouth to explain the sad but somehow also funny fact, for the first time she realizes she doesn’t have to.

He’s laughing as well.

It’s not self conscious, it’s just simple laughter he doesn’t even bother to hide. Which only makes her laugh harder. That seems to egg him on as well. It’s only when Goliath turns to see what the fuss is that she manages to get herself somewhat under control, but then she winds up snorting when she tries to contain herself and not scare the poor horse. None of it works particularly well and none of it seems to matter.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be a fine Knight one day,” she says. 

He nods his head.

“I think you would have made a fine one as well,” he offers. She laughs, “I do.”

“I’d be a terrible Knight,” she says, “Knights are brave, they can fight, they do—all those things I don’t know about,” she waves a hand, “I’ve gone unconscious in every fight I’ve been in,” she enjoys the bubbles on her tongue, “no, I think—I hope—I’ll make a decent healer one day.”

“You’re a fine healer,” he says.

“That doesn’t count from someone who can heal themselves,” she says.

“Goliath thinks you’re a fine healer,” he says without missing a beat.

“Fine, I’ll accept that from Goliath,” she compromises, “Oh, speaking of which—hold this,” she says, handing him her cup and digging into her pocket, “it’s Fey tradition to bring someone whose hurt something to help them feel better,” Goliath raises his head, “yes this is for you. Someone doesn’t believe in bodily pleasure,” she opens the wax paper, “the Raiders brought some dried fruit with them. It’s not the same as a fresh apple but it was the best I could do.”

Goliath takes the treat from her hand and chews on it, his ears flicking back and forth. There aren’t many apple rings but he devours the few she’s managed to get. She stuffs the paper into her pocket so he can’t eat it but lets him lip at her fingers for any remains. She looks up at Lancelot whose observing them with a look she’s not sure she’s ever seen on his face. It seems to be the night for those. She’s not sure she can take many more surprises. First him laughing and now this.

“What’s on your belt?” She asks. The look vanishes as his stoicism seems to come roaring back and he looks back at Goliath, his fingers tightening on the cup, “sorry, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I was just curious.”

“I was praying,” he admits finally. His eyes dart to hers like he’s expecting something but she’s not sure what, “for him.”

“Is that what that’s used for?”

He nods and hands her the cup to unhook it. He takes the cup back and offers it to her. She takes it carefully—in her non horse-licked hand—and looks. It’s a string of black beads with orange cut through their center. They move along the red silk that links them together and forms the tassel at one end. That end is threaded through a circle, bringing the cross to rest above both strands when looped together. They’re beautifully made and heavier than she would expect.

“How do you pray with this?” She asks. He seems surprised, “I mean I understand the cross bit but the rest of it—“

“Each bead is a prayer,” he says, “you say the prayer and you move it, until you’ve said them for each bead.”

“That makes sense,” she says. He looks surprised, “we have something similar,” she says, “but the beads are stationary and it’s in a loop,” he glances at her wrists, “mine’s gone,” she says, “it was wood so—“ she shrugs, “I didn’t have it on me anyway. Only the High Priestess really wore hers all the time.”

“I—“ he cuts himself off, “I was a monk,” he says.

He looks at her still as though he’s waiting for something. There’s a tension that wasn’t there before on him. She wants to ask what is wrong but she can trace it back to the heavy beads in her hand. She offers them back to him and he takes them carefully, clipping them away but the tension remains.

“Is this because I caught you praying?” She asks. He glances away, “I saw you praying back on the ship when the Red Spear was going to cut your throat.”

“That was before I was Squirrel’s Squire.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of plug that makes you stop believing in the God you gave your life to?” She asks. He takes a drink, “I didn’t stop being Fey because the Raiders didn’t drown me. But being Fey didn’t stop me from wearing Sigurd,” he gives her a blank look, “that amulet I lent you.”

“Squirrel has it,” he says.

“I figured,” she replies, “my point is I know it’s not as simple as that.”

He nods.

“That’s why you may never believe me.”

There’s no accusation in his tone, it’s a simple reiteration of what she said. She realizes she shouldn’t be surprised he remembers that conversation. So much has happened so quickly. When she said that she couldn’t even look at him. But oddly even back then he had already demonstrated that he put great value her and Squirrel’s safety. Above even the things that actually mattered, like the secret of his Fire. She still knows there’s some truth to his words, though not as much as there was back then. Not believing him is smart, not trusting him is smart. And though she knows it logically, there’s a bittersweetness to it she doesn’t fully understand.

“It’s not that simple,” she says, forcing herself to meet his eyes. He nods in acknowledgement, “but I think there’s a difference between that and you praying over your injured horse.”

“It’s the same Faith,” he says.

“But it’s not that simple,” she repeats, “none of this is simple,” she takes a drink, “honestly it’s a wonder you’re the person I most enjoy spending time with.”

The words slip out but she knows they’re true. To the point where she can’t even deny it, no matter how embarrassing it is that everyone seems aware they keep sneaking off to talk. Or wandering off. Or visiting each other while one is chained up, kidnapped or trapped in a cave by an all powerful Fey Queen. It’s embarrassing but it hasn’t exactly made her stop. Even though now she’s with all the other Fey, some of whom she has known for her entire life. All of whom she should feel more comfortable around. He seems to sense what she is and isn’t saying and the guarded look eases.

“I enjoy your company as well,” he says.

It would be a polite remark but Lancelot doesn’t seem to do polite once his mouth opens. It explains a lot about the rumors she heard, about the silent weeping monk who never sobbed. It strikes her that the marks she used to fear have become less forbidding. All of him has. Which is saying something considering she just saw him murder dozens of people. Something sparks in the silence, something that she doesn’t have the words for.

“Well that’s all fine, but what about Goliath?” She asks, breaking it, “he seems to be the real judge of character here.”

He runs his hand across the horse’s shoulder in a gesture so familiar it’s almost automatic.

“He likes you fine. You brought him apples,” he says.

“There you two are!” Squirrel says tromping through the darkness, “I was wondering where you snuck off to this time. Bors said probably in the tent but I thought you’d be here.”

“Well you found us,” Pym says.

Squirrel nods and then freezes. His eyes going wide. Pym sees a flash of gold and a moment later she finds herself behind Lancelot. Standing in the middle of the field is a member of the Guard. Like Lancelot he carries a pair of double swords. She feels Lancelot’s weight shift as he drops his hand to his blades. Pym looks up desperately, waiting for the hail of arrows that always seem to accompany the Guard, but none come. Though the Guard is there, Goliath doesn’t even lift his head. Doesn’t act as though he’s a threat.

“Lancelot—“

Both draw their swords at the same time and, at the same moment, both charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ok ok before anyone gets upset I promise this is the last character I'm introducing for a while. But it's important that this one is here for reasons. I also don't think I (or the authors) can tell Lancelot's story without this character.I know there's a lot of characters flying about now but don't worry, I have a plan.
> 
> As always your feedback is wildly and profoundly appreciated. Please let me know what you think! Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. I couldn't update like this without your support. Onwards!


	28. Ash: Part 28

The Guard has a wide range of abilities, but this one has earned his mask through skill.

Every move that he makes, the Guard counters. He’s fast. Speed always wins with blades, the sharp edge doesn’t require much in the way of power. They have always been taught to keep their blades sharp. The Guard has two main advantages, he’s only consumed watered wine and he’s able to move freely. Lancelot keeps himself between the Guard and the few behind him. He hasn’t heard them run but he doesn’t fully expect them to. Not after what’s just happened. It’s foolish, they should. But they don’t and he’s oddly thankful. It’s a short distance to the camp but that didn’t stop Pym from being taken or Goliath from losing an eye. He disengages with his opponent who lunges forward. Lancelot sidesteps but realizes they were not going for his flesh.

He ignores the sudden lack of weight on his belt.

He may still have his Faith and he spares a thought for the beads that scatter along the grass, but they aren’t important in this moment. He isn’t surprised the Guard has strong feelings regarding him having those, he’s killed enough of his kin to be seen as a traitor. The Guard’s mask and cloak make it difficult to judge where he’ll strike next, but the Guard’s desperation to cut his beads is a give away for what he’s focused on. Lancelot can’t hear any of his kin in the trees, but that’s not something he wants to test. He moves forward, trading blows and forcing the Guard back. The Guard narrowly avoids his strike and Lancelot allows himself to fall into it, as though off balance. It’s a risky move, he could easily be impaled but the Guard’s ego gets the best of him and instead of striking to do damage, he aims for Lancelot’s scalp. It stings and his hair comes free but it positions him perfectly to tuck into the strike and bury the pommel of his blade in the Guard’s stomach.

The Guard chokes and spit hits the inside of his mask. Lancelot turns and gets to his feet, hauling the thinner, smaller Guard up. He disarms him and pins his arms. Swords match them equally but he has the advantage in height and weight. Or he thinks he does, until the Guard hooks his leg around his and flips him over his shoulder. Lancelot rolls with it and gets to his feet, kicking out as the Guard reaches for his blade. He blocks but forgets Lancelot is still armed. Lancelot slices across his forearm and grabs his other arm, drawing it up and pinning it. The mask is to protect against the move, but Lancelot pulls his arm back and twists for a moment until it comes free of its socket. The weak point is always behind the ears and a moment later, the Guard is slumped forward.

“Goliath!”

The horse canters over and he wraps his reins around the Guard’s wrists and neck, tying them off. The Guard remains limp. Lancelot looks to the trees and listens to the forest for any other humans. Then takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes to focus. He rarely needs to these days but there are so many Fey around him. He picks up on Pym and Squirrel, the mess of scents that make up the camp and the undercurrent of two druids and whatever Morgana and Gawain have become. He focuses on separating all of them, trying to focus on the new scent

Home.

The memory wells up from some dark, forbidden corner of his mind. Running along smooth stones in smoke and fog so thick it’s impossible to see. The world is big, but not frightening. He barely comes up to the shoulder of any boy he’s with. The men and women all tower over him. They are all lost to the smoke and fog though. He can hear the ocean. He closes his eyes and sucks in air throng his nose as though taking in a deeper breath will make the task easier. He hears others laughing but he focuses on his nose, he wants to do this the proper way though it’s not easy. There’s something wrong with his nose. But he inhales and on the third breath he finds the scent. He takes off through the fog towards it—

Lancelot’s eyes fly open. The world is not big, people are not tall. He’s not near the smooth stoned beach or the fog or the smoke. He’s in the field with Goliath. There’s blood and hair in his eyes but it doesn’t matter. Despite everything the blade he’s holding drops as he rips the mask off the Guard. He sees what his nose already told him, but it’s as though he’s seeing land for the first time. His eyes don’t understand what they are being shown.

It’s been a lifetime since he’s seen the marks on a face other than his own.

“Oh look,” Merlin says quietly, appearing as though from a nightmare, “there’s two of you now. We’ll have all the Fire we could possibly need.”

Lancelot wonders if the feeling of falling will ever leave him.

The Ash Fey draped over Goliath’s saddle is unmoving and limp. Lancelot has the irrational urge to put the mask back on, to keep at least one secret for a moment longer. But the others are there suddenly, crowding around Goliath to get a look at the Ash Fey. It feels wrong that the chaos has taken over. Right as this fragment of something he didn’t know existed gets dropped onto his lap. He’s not expecting the ground to tremble. However interested people are in the Ash Fey they are wary of Gawain. He means them no harm but Lancelot doubts there has ever been anything like him to walk the earth.

“Return to camp,” he says in the new silence.

“Gather your things,” Nimue’s voice breaks in. She and Gawain look at each other, then she looks at her people, “we must be ready to move at first light.”

They all turn. Or almost all of them turn. Nimue gives them a controlled smile and they walk towards the camp. She comes to stand with the rest of them. The smells are overpowering or maybe that’s just the shock of the tear marked face hidden under the mask. It was never an insult that the Guard didn’t call for him, Father always told him that he had the skill but not the will. That to be in the Guard was to be one step closer to his Holiness, one step closer to God. Demon born could never be allowed, not until they had found Salvation. He wonders if Father knew. If he had been lied to as well. He wishes there was a way to know. But all he has is more questions as he stares at the unmoving face. Someone comes close and his hand goes for his sword.

“Easy,” Arthur says, not perturbed by his movement, “let’s get out of the field.”

“They came alone,” Gawain says.

“I wouldn’t use your vines,” Merlin says. Gawain lowers his, “or take this one too close to camp.”

“Why not?” Arthur asks.

“Because we all want to see everyone get to where they’re going. The more Ash Folk you have in one place, the more uncontrolled the Fey Fire is,” he takes a celebratory drink, “Morgana you should take it somewhere without any greenery.”

“What do you mean the more uncontrolled the Fey Fire is?” Nimue demands. Merlin says nothing and her patience seems to snap as she rips the goblet out of his hand and throws it away, “I am not an excuse for you to drink!” She says, “tell me what you meant.”

“Ash Folk make Fey Fire, it’s why they got hunted down. Then they hid and the Paladins got them. Most of them anyway,” he says, “there was a rumor that they had crystals in their stomachs that made the Fire, but that was a lie. Not that I started it,” Lancelot realizes he’s learned more about his people in a few offhanded comments from a drunk Druid than he ever has before, “I’m guessing this one can just make it on accident.”

It’s painfully silent as everyone looks at him. These people are not his friends, protecting the secret is the only thing he’s done throughout his life. But for the first time when they look at him, he feels guilty. It’s a hard thing to describe, he they owe each other nothing. But the guilt gnaws at him like a living thing. Maybe it’s the secrets they’ve shared or the kindness of letting him keep his head. Maybe it’s something else entirely. Nimue looks at him for a moment and then stalks over to Pym. The hushed exchange is hard to pick up on. That troubling feeling that he’s felt about the two of them throwing their support behind him roars like the fire. If Pym has any sense of self preservation she’ll attempt to deny it. Maybe she’ll pull off the lie. One of them should get out of this.

“You’ve been back for hours and it wasn’t my secret to tell!”

Or not.

“Hold on,” Arthur says and grips the Red Spear’s arm, “let’s hear the whole story—“

She says nothing as she throws him off and walks over to Pym and Nimue. It’s lucky that they haven’t been followed. It’s a moment longer before Nimue walks over to Merlin. The Druid sobers up fast. Not that he’s given a choice as Nimue grabs the flask and uses her magic to grind it into dust. He looks over at Pym and the Red Spear. He should go over and help but none of his body seems to be moving correctly. The sound of the Red Spear striking her shocks him out of whatever stupor has taken ahold of him. He’s there before he’s even moved and Pym holds up her hand.

“We fight our own battles,” the Red Spear spits at her.

“I don’t stab people.”

“You brought that thing on my ship,” the Red Spear snarls, “he could have burned us all,” she looks her up and down. Pym braces herself, “never again,” she says and pulls out a knife that Lancelot remembers being pressed against his throat, “I see you without it and I’ll gut you myself,” she says to Pym. She turns on Lancelot, “No-one on my crew owes you a debt for bringing our healer back safely. Not after this. And you’re not welcome on my ship until I see you control that damned Fire.”

Pym watches her walk back to Arthur. The blood from her split lip trickles down her chin. But she’s undeterred. Behind her Squirrel is still half hidden in her cloak. She’s had him plug his ears and hide his eyes and for once he seems to have listened. Lancelot opens his mouth, not sure if it’s to apologize or be sick or maybe it’s to scream, but nothing comes out. Not at first.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally, it sounds like a paltry excuses. Pym looks up at him for a moment and Lancelot doesn’t know why he’s desperate to explain his ignorance to the one person least capable of doing him any bodily harm.

“I believe you,” Pym says. She finally lets Squirrel go to touch her lip, wincing as she does. 

“Finally!” Squirrel says, everyone turning to look at him. He immediately senses something is wrong. Lancelot holds him back before he can move in front of him but Nimue’s eyes narrow, “what happened?”

“Merlin knew,” he says simply.

“Oh,” Squirrel says, “well he didn’t break any code because we know about each other’s powers,” he adds, “so—“ he claps a hand over the boy’s mouth. Enough secrets have been shared, enough loyalties tested. Squirrel pulls his hand down “hey!”

“Not tonight.”

“Don’t order him,” Nimue says. His eyes snap to her. Defiance is written all over her and even though he’s taller, she draws herself up. With her it works. She wears her authority like the Queen Mother did, like her simpering son always tried to. But he’s spent his life surrounded by men who believe that they are God’s Chosen. “Squirrel come here.”

“No,” he says, finally pushing himself free. Lancelot grabs his arm again, “of course he wouldn’t tell you. No-one’s given him a chance. I wouldn’t tell you any of my secrets either. I thought all Fey were brothers.”

“Squirrel that’s not fair.”

“Nothing’s fair!” He says, “and you don’t have to give him a chance but then why would he say anything? The only people he told are me and Pym. I knew he was good after he saved my life but Pym’s the only one whose treated him like you all said Fey should treat each other,” he looks at all of them, “I’m not going with you. I’d rather stay here.”

It’s an impressive speech. Lancelot looks down to see that one of Gawain’s vines has sprung up, but it’s not wrapped around the boy’s wrist. It’s just there for him to grasp, as though he can draw strength from whatever it is that Gawain has become. He looks at the Knight and something peaceful and proud settles on his face. When the vine falls away, Squirrel doesn’t react but Lancelot finds himself replacing it with his own hand.

“I need a bucket,” Pym says, “and those shackles.”

“Why the bucket?” Nimue asks.

“To heal him,” Pym says.

“No. You can have the shackles. He’s not healing until we know what’s going on. None of his injuries are life threatening.”

Pym’s throat bobs. But she seems to realize some kind of compromise must be made. She nods finally. He pulls on the gloves and takes the shackles before she can. He makes sure the Guard’s wrists are covered and fits one with the shackle. He lines up and snaps their arm back into place before putting the other on. Merlin waves his hand and stones pile up and form something approximating a house.

“We have a few hours till dawn. Might as well get out of it what we can.”

The Guard don’t have individualism. There’s no names among them. ‘It’ would be the most proper way to describe the Ash Folk. Lancelot has to remind himself that this is not the reason he wants to run Merlin through. Nimue steps forward.

“We can’t all be here,” she says, “The rest of you go back to Kaze. Merlin, Morgana, Pym and myself will hear what this one has to say.”

“No,” Lancelot says.

“I didn’t ask you,” Nimue snaps, “we need to know what is going on. For all of us. You and your grudge match will have to wait.”

“We’re from the same Folk,” he says. Even though the Ash Folk is limp over his horse because of him. His throat tastes of bile as he looks at her, “please.”

She wavers for a moment but resolve hardens her features and she looks up at him.

“No,” she says, “the safety of everyone comes first. Merlin make them somewhere to sit. Morgana can you please—?”

Morgana nods and both she and the Guard vanish. Merlin goes in after her and Nimue stands by the door. Pym looks at him but he only nods. If anyone but him had to be there, she is the best bet at the Ash Folk making it out of there. She looks at him one final time and then Nimue clears her throat and Pym hurries inside. Nimue goes in last and Merlin banishes the door, as though it was never there. Lancelot tastes sour and feels almost weak as he sits down on the stone.

“I’m sorry he told your secret,” Squirrel says.

“As am I,” Lancelot agrees, “what you did was brave.”

“I just did what a Knight’s supposed to do,” Squirrel says, “if the Trinity Guard is supposed to be so scary, why do they keep losing to you?”

“I’m scarier,” he says.

“No you’re not,” Squirrel says, “I think you’re just a better fighter.”

“That too,” Lancelot says, ““You can go back,” he offers.

Squirrel considers for a moment

“I’d rather stay here with you.”

Lancelot nods and moves over so Squirrel can sit next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts! I do try to stay away from oc's, but this is an Arthurian character who I do think will be introduced. As always thank you for your comments/kudos/tumblr messages, it's so wonderful to be on this lil tug boat of a ship with other people. Feedback is always always appreciated. I'll see you in the next chapter!


	29. Ash: Part 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so not to get ahead of myself but I to minimize confusion I want to point out that AFTER the mask came off, the member of the Trinity Guard has been exclusively referred to as 'they' 'them' 'the Guard' and 'it'. This is deliberate but I just want to point it out before we get into the chapter.

How could she not have seen that Merlin would know?

Pym wonders how she thought a seven hundred year old druid who had forged the sword himself using Fey Fire wouldn’t have known where it came from. Or maybe she did know and she had just, on some level, chosen to keep the secret. She was not expecting Merlin to drunkenly say it though. Not like that. She has to fight the urge to prod at her lip. That’s another thing she wasn’t expecting. But it’s the Raider’s language. The knife that’s been given to her feels heavy. The idea of stabbing someone with it feels wrong. It shouldn’t be something she has to worry about but she’s in a doorless room with three of the most powerful people she’s ever seen. And one who she may have spit on, kicked in the face or left to die in an exploding tree quite recently.

Lancelot’s beads feel heavy in her pocket.

They’re already broken, she doubts a Fey touching them renders them invalid. She knows she got all of them before Merlin dropped a house on the patch of dirt. How Merlin has made this night so terrible, she’ll never understand. Though some of the guilt surely lies with her. But so much of her world is grey, keeping a friend’s secret doesn’t feel wrong. This doesn’t feel wrong. No more than not telling Squirrel’s secret doesn’t feel wrong. Though Squirrel is young, she’s known him his entire life. But keeping both of them safe has become, oddly, equally important.

The Guard stirs.

For a moment the pain is clear, but the next instant they turn their face into their hood. Unfortunately that pulls their shoulder and they have no choice but to look ahead. Breathing hard. It’s the mask, Pym realizes. This Fey is used to hiding everything behind the impassive gold face.

“You’re very good,” Nimue says, “but you came alone. That’s not how the Guard operates.” Their prisoner presses their lips together, “you’ve attacked and failed enough for us to have some idea of how you work. We’re guessing you’re a scout for the others, our Ash Fey has told us all about your Folk’s abilities.”

The lie makes Pym’s gut twist, but it’s a clever trick. The Ash Fry’s entire demeanor changes to something much angrier. The shoulder they can move tenses, their entire body seems to straighten and they look down at the ground for a moment before raising their black rimmed eyes. It’s like looking at a warped version of Lancelot. She can see the training written all over this Fey, but there’s a speed to their reactions Lancelot doesn’t show. They aren’t fighting them. They still believe.

“You’re not here as a Guard, are you?” All of them focus on her and Pym realizes that she was not supposed to speak. Their prisoner’s eyes narrow in recognition, “you’re not here because I escaped either.”

“Clearly she’s here for Lancelot,” Morgana says, “Is it because he’s betrayed your Fey Folk or the Church?”

Pym looks at Nimue. The hood, the cloak, all of it makes it difficult to discern anything about the Guard. But Morgana sees it. Though she has never seen a female Paladin, Pym remembers Iris. Remembers her dying. But she was a member of the Guard. The particulars of what it takes to be a Paladin aren’t something she’s ever asked Lancelot about. The Guard even reacts to the attention drawn to her, a scowl painting across her face.

“I’m here for you as well,” she says finally, raising her head to Morgana.

Morgana folds her arms and a moment later she’s in front of them, veil in place. Even though she’s seen it, Pym still feels her heard jump. Ignoring the pain, the Guard shoves herself back and her face contorts in some combination of disgust and fear.

“You’re a little late for that,” Morgana says.

The violent backwards movement dislodges her hood. Her features are more feminine, but Pym focuses on the markings. They’re bigger than Lancelot’s, covering more of the skin under her eyes and fanning out towards the corners. Pym thinks of endless nights and days with her mother in front of the fire, how it makes sense that the women need to reflect more of the glare . Morgana steps back without magicand the Guard’s scowl darkens.

“Enough theatrics,” Merlin says walking forward.

He produces yet another goblet, which makes Nimue glare. Only this one is filled with dirt that wipes the glare off of the Guard’s face. Merlin dribbles it onto the ground at her feet and the Guard looks at it suspiciously. Merlin waves a hand over it and the dirt pile trembles and begins to duplicate, rising in on itself until it’s a mound that comes up high on her chest. Merlin looks at her and grins before snapping his fingers. A sapling pushes up from the ground, growing upwards and sprouting branches and twisting, unfurling until it’s a massive tree, with several of the branches barely a breath from the Guard’s nose. Nimue moves closer and Pym steps over towards her. Out of all of them, she’s very aware that she’s most likely to cook.

“Merlin,” Nimue says, a warning in her tone.

Merlin waves her off and the branches reach for the Guard. When she pushes herself back, they sprout behind her and reach for her that way.

“You made an oven,” she snaps, “you’ll die.”

“I’ve died before, it never seems to stick,” Merlin says.

“I’ll be fine,” she spits back at him.

“But your fire will have killed an innocent Fey,” he says, looking back at Pym. Pym opens her mouth to refute that but if embarrassing her can get the Guard to cooperate, she can handle it, “isn’t there something in your book about not murdering a brother?”

“These are not my brothers,” she spits.

“So why not use the Fire to kill them?” He asks. The Guard’s head snaps up and away, “your brothers are looking for you. What do you think the Pope’s going to say when he sees what you can do?”

“Your idiot of an Ash Man has already shown what I can do,” she spits back at him.

“And what did the Pope say?”

She shuts her mouth and looks away.

“Look at the back of her head,” Pym whispers to Morgana. Morgana raises an eyebrow, “she was trying to cut Lancelot’s scalp.”

Morgana appears behind her and pushes her head forward. The Guard jerks, either from contact or pain or in an effort to avoid the branches. Morgana parts her hair and looks at her scalp.

“The Cross is still here,” she pulls back the neck of the robes, “these are deep. You haven’t been excommunicated. Yet,” Morgana looks at her eyes, “so if you bring them Lancelot, you get to stay. Why not send help?” She clenches her jaw.

“Probably to blow us up,” Merlin says and looks at Morgana, “this is why you should keep practicing without the veil,” he looks at the Guard, “you should have spent more time out of the mask.”

The branches tremble and Pym fights the urge to stay silent. For as long as she possibly can. But just standing here watching someone be tortured makes her skin crawl. She remembers what it was like to be helpless and at the mercy of the Raiders and the Paladins. Even if this is one of the Guards who tried to kill her, she’s not Raider enough yet to enjoy this.

“So she’s here to blow us up or murder at least Morgana and Lancelot—“ Morgana’s eyes narrow, “not that she could,” Pym adds, “what’s the point of torturing her further?”

“More information,” Merlin says.

“Not like that,” Pym says. They all look at her blankly, “if you upset her enough she’s going to burn us all down even without that tree,” no-one reacts with any understanding and Pym feels her frustration boil over, “have you ever _seen_ an untrained Ash Folk make Fey Fire?” Merlin shakes his head, “well I have and I’m in no rush for a repeat performance.”

Nimue looks at her sharply and Pym meets her gaze. Everyone’s eyes trickle over to her. Pym knows her voice doesn’t matter against the immortals and the rarest of Fey and the most powerful. But she hopes that the girl she grew up with, the one she was best friends with, can find it in herself to trust her. Just once more. Nimue opens and closes her mouth and then looks at Merlin.

“She’s right, put the tree away. We don’t need this being an oven,” Merlin hesitates, “now,” Nimue adds.

Merlin banishes the tree and waves a door into the front of the hovel without being further asked. Even if it’s to let those who cannot vanish at will out, the moment the door opens Lancelot and Squirrel are standing there. Lancelot inspects her quickly and she nods to show she’s fine before his eyes move over to the Guard. A sneer twists her face at the sight of him. Lancelot’s features become smooth and impassive, but his eyes get the hungry look in them that Pym is used to seeing after he smells new magic. He hesitates at the doorway before walking fully inside and looking down at the restrained Fey.

“They told me no-one survived,” he says.

Pym winces and privately thinks the Paladins say that more than it’s actually true. But she can also see how a boy would believe it. A smirk twists the Guard’s lips but her mouth remains shut. Lancelot stares at her and falls silent as well. She sees Squirrel try to move and Lancelot catches his shoulder blindly, pushing him back. Nimue moves forward and steps out, taking Squirrel with her past the threshold, despite his squirming.

“Do you have a name?” Pym asks because someone has to say something. The Ash Fey is silent. Morgana coalesces behind her and taps her shoulder, lifting the corner of her veil. There’s something not human peaking out, “Morgana—“

“Tristain,” she says, looking at Lancelot, “my name is Tristain.”

No recognition flares on his face, but no further frustration shows on hers. They just look at each other, somehow both radiating disappointment and regret. Tristain also radiates the desire to see them all dead, but Pym’s come to realize that is just how the Church seems to function. After a moment Nimue walks back inside and looks between them all.

“Kill me and get it over with,” Tristain snaps, glaring at her.

“All Fey are brothers,” Nimue says, walking over to her, “even the lost ones.”

Lancelot’s eyes widen as Nimue touches her forehead and Tristain slumps forward. Nimue comes over to them and looks at Pym.

“How do we move her?” She says, “if we run into trouble we can use her.”

Gawain makes a noise of disgust and annoyance flashes in Nimue’s eyes. She looks over at him and Gawain bows his head in submission. He may be something beyond the living, but Pym is aware that the rest of them are very much alive. And there’s a few days ride between them and their destination.

“Morgana transporting her could be safest,” Pym says.

“I can’t move people,” Morgana says, “not without killing them,” something nervous sparks in her eyes, making her look far more human than she has since Pym saw her, “I think.”

“Not without killing them,” Merlin agrees, “no touching trees.”

“Nothing green, nothing living,” Lancelot speaks suddenly, “if you wrap her in the cloak and keep her unconscious, it should be enough.”

That seems like a satisfactory answer. Nimue looks at her and nods towards the door. Pym knows Lancelot will stand there all night if given the chance, though given what she’s seen of everything she thinks, grudgingly, that Merlin might have a point. Two Ash Folk with limited control is not a good idea. She has yet to see anyone make it through the iron, but from the destruction she’s seen she imagines it’s very possible. Lancelot’s still got dry blood on him and his hair is unbound, Tristain’s shoulders slant at an unnatural angle.

“She’ll be alright,” she says to Lancelot, “I need to look at the cut on your head.”

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Lancelot,” she puts her hand over his wrist. He stiffens slightly at the contact. It’s barely noticeable but at the same time it’s a big reaction for him. The tension echoes across him, “we’ll just go outside.”

He hesitates for a moment and then dips his head, pulling away from her touch to step outside. Nimue nods at her and she takes a deep breath and moves after him. He’s barely walked a few steps before he sits down. He’s still chillingly graceful, but there’s a heaviness to his movements that Pym’s never seen before. Out of the corner of he eye she sees Squirrel walk forward. She wants to grab him back and protect him from whatever Lancelot is about to do. But when Squirrel looks at her, he’s the one who tries to fake a smile and fails.

He’s seen this before, she realizes.

She drops the hand that’s about to reach for him and watches as he walks over to Lancelot and sits next to him. He doesn’t say anything he just puts his chin in his hand, picks up a previously discarded stick and starts to draw in the dirt. He’s not close enough for Lancelot to have to suffer physical contact or still enough that he has to talk, but just close enough that he knows he’s not alone. Pym itches to go and get her bag or water, to do something to fix the one thing she thinks she can.

But instead she walks over to Lancelot’s other side and sits down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so all you Arthurian people out there will most likely recognize who has just arrived. I fully think they are setting up something similar with a female reimagining of Tristan, the same way that they did with Kaze and Sir Kay. Tristain is a unisex name, though its most often used for boys. I know we have a lot of characters floating around but I promise we're still very focused on our core trio.
> 
> Feedback is love! Thank you for all the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. This was a hard chapter to get out because I hate introducing OCs but I promise that this is the last one for a while. I just want to get the Knights in here for the larger story I'm telling. Please let me know what you think! I'll see you in the next chapter!


	30. Ash: Part 30

  
He’s forgotten how to speak.

He jerks awake. It takes a moment for him to judge it’s been a few hours. He’s sure that he’s opened his mouth to scream but no sound comes out. It’s just the short pants of his own horror. He doesn’t remember the dream but he knows that is only because he’s trained himself to cast it aside. The same way he trained himself not to scream. His mind is trained, just as the rest of him is. He pushes his hand through his hair and realizes that it’s unbound. His scalp and forehead are caked with dried blood. He looks around and takes in the stone structure holding the other Ash Fey. Squirrel is curled up next to him in what has become a familiar sleeping position. On the other side—he realizes there’s nothing. He’s almost afraid to try and find any scent, afraid if he breathes to deeply the smell of another Ash Folk will make him lose control. He focuses and pushes everything else out of his mind, finding just Pym’s scent and locking in on it.

It’s close.

He stays nearby, it’s bad enough that she was taken. Squirrel suffering the same fate again isn’t something he’s willing to entertain. The Paladins don’t know how to have prisoners, not for any length of time. But the two of them are spectacularly bad at being anything he could reason them keeping alive. Squirrel was dead the moment he spat in Father’s face and Pym has apparently taken to kicking people. He needs to keep them both close for many reasons. Pym is just around the bend of the room. He’s careful to keep to the stone though. She’s sitting in front of Goliath with his chanfron in her lap. She bites off the threat and sets a bone needle aside. He watches as the blue green vines appear up her neck and fan over her cheek as she tightens the stitches and pulls the loose strips of leather into a tight patch to cover his missing eye.

“Alright lets try this on,” she says, putting it back in place. She tugs the reins and walks forward. Goliath follows obediently, “that’s better. Now we won’t have to worry as much about your bandages.”

It feels wrong to stand there and observe so he moves forward, making his presence known. Pym turns and looks at him. Not with pity or fear or anything. She leads Goliath back over. Goliath comes to him and lips at his hand before dropping his head to graze.

“I think he’s upset you don’t have apples,” Pym says.

“You’ve spoiled him,” he replies.

“He’s a good horse,” she retorts.

“Thank you for fixing this,” he says.

“Oh you’re welcome. I tried to match the leather, that was the closest I could.”

He nods his thanks. It’s scraps but it will keep Goliath safe. That’s the only thing that truly matters. Appearance was always just something that could be used as another tool, not the most important thing. Though the leather is a close match. Not studded but embossed. It probably belonged to the Church or Cumber at one point before getting taken in a raid. He drags his eyes back to her split lip. The injuries are minor, relatively speaking. At the very least they are all alive. But they weigh on him. They sting of his failure. Of his cowardice. It feels more like when he was a boy than he ever wanted to feel again.

“Don’t poke it with your tongue, you’ll only make it worse.”

Pym stops what she’s doing and looks at him suspiciously. Lancelot returns the look. He’s broken his lip open more times than he cares to remember. It’s an obvious mark, not the kind that is bad enough to risk healing himself. Too many questions would follow. But he knows the temptation of prodding the half opened cut. Even if is the opposite of what will help it heal.

  
“The second I think about it that’s all I want to do,” she admits. He nods and she looks down at her fingers, “it’s the first time I’ve had it.”

“You should see Nimue,” he says.

“She doesn’t need to heal this,” Pym says, “it’s more annoying than anything else,” she goes to prod it with her tongue and stops herself, “can I check your scalp? I want to make sure the hair isn’t stuck.”

He nods and lowers himself onto the stone, folding his legs. Pym peers at the back of his head. He hears her sigh. When she got the leather she apparently go other things. She appears with a waterskin.

“Tip your head down,” she says, “your hair’s completely matted and stuck.”

He dips his head forward and lets her douse his head with cold water. Whatever vestiges of sleep still cling to him vanish as the cold bites into him and stings over his scap. From what he can tell it’s longer than he initially thought. But the wound is relatively minor and such things are rarely a focus in the middle of a fight. Pym pushes his hair forward to get a better look and the brown tresses flop in front of his eyes, completely obscuring his vision.

“It’s through your—“ she stops herself, “it’s through the cross.”

“Tonsure,” he says, “that’s what it’s called.”

“Right because Saint Peter had hair like this,” Pym says, “you never told us the story.”

He realizes she’s right. It seemed like a strange thing to say at the time, to offer it like that to two who didn’t have any reason to care about such a story. All the talk of saving souls and being told that the Fey wouldn’t listen to such things. But two had asked about it, even though they had no reason to care. The water stings against the cut. Pym makes sure all of his hair is out of it. It feels almost wrong to have her fingertips so near the scar. He knows it should be something he moves away from, but some perverse curiosity keeps him sitting there.

  
“Did this hurt?” Pym asks finally, “sorry, is that a rude question? You don’t have to answer that.”

“Pain isn’t always a bad thing,” he says, “the suffering can cleanse you.”

“Water gets you clean,” Pym replies, “suffering just hurts.”

“Not for the Soul.”

“Are you sure?” He glances to the side but cannot see her, “it seems like less killing would keep your soul a lot cleaner.”

“We’re born with sin,” he parrots the long spoken phrase.

The familiar guilt follows.

Original sin is a tenant of the faith. No one is clean until they repent for it. The Fey refusing to undergo the rite has always been used to justify why they must be cleansed. He remembers his own rite well. How even as Father Carden put him under the water, some part of him wished to be held down and never let back up. How in all the years that followed, the idea that children were full of sin and needed to be cleansed never made sense to him. It was a weakness, Father had always said. One that Father allowed but one that condemned him none the less.

His back itches and aches.

“That’s what I was taught,” he admits finally.

“But you didn’t believe it,” Pym says.

“No,” he says, but the familiar guilt that follows at disagreeing is absent. Or maybe it’s just the lack of punishment that follows, “I wouldn’t hurt the little ones.”

Pym is quiet. He remembers Gawain refuting the statement, pointing out what he had always known but had been easier to deny. After all, he had watched his own parents burn but he had been saved. When he thinks about it now it makes his stomach roll but for so many years he was able not to. Not to think about it, not to remember it. The sight of another Ash Fey though, the smell of them, they seem to dig deep into his memories and bring them up. As if everything is connected to that scent. He’s terrified that might be the case.

He’s not expecting Pym to put her hand on his shoulder.

It’s a small, meaningless thing but if anyone could hear what he is trying to say, he imagines it would be her. She doesn’t say that she forgives him or anything like that, he wouldn’t expect her to. But there’s something like an understanding in her touch. Or maybe it’s just the newness of trying to explain himself without the understanding that pain is guaranteed to follow. He still tenses for it, his body prepares for it. In some ways it aches for it. But his mind has started to understand that it is not inevitable. It remains to be seen if that is a sign of salvation or the promised, continued, abandonment.

“It was usually children who escaped,” she offers.

He thinks about Bors.

“Can I ask you something?”

She’s silent before seeming to remember that she’s behind him.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Was I ever used as a threat for children not doing their chores?” He knows it’s a ridiculous thing to be curious about, it’s something he’s pushed to the back of his head since the stampede. “When you were taken, they caused a stampede. The boy from earlier was there. To get him to listen I said I would only come for children who didn’t do as I said, it seemed like that wasn’t the first time he heard those words.”

Pym makes a soft sound that he thinks could be a sob, but when he turns and pushes his hair up, it’s the opposite sound.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t think it needed saying—“ she tries to compose herself, “it’s not used that often.”

Being used as a threat in such a benign way is a strange thing for him. He had guessed at something to that effect when he first took Squirrel and the boy immediately knew who he was. Not a whispered secret like he was usually referred to by the adult Fey. Squirrel is uniquely brave but the speed at which Bors had responded told him it was not the first time. It’s odd to have that confirmed. Pym wipes her fingers on a rag and scoops up some handful of grass and dirt, putting it on the stone. He presses his hand to it and feels the skin seal together. Though he knows there isn’t a point, he reaches back and touches his scalp. The familiar lines have been fused together into a shape that’s less a cross and more two v’s pointing at each other. The fuzz that has started to push through his scalp will grow where he’s healed himself, there’s no scar tissue.

“Your hair’s starting to grow in,” Pym says unnecessarily, “are you going to keep it like that?”

“I can’t,” he says, sitting back on his heels. She looks at him curiously, “I’ve forsaken my vows by becoming a squire.”

She doesn’t say anything to that and perhaps there is nothing that can be said. He thought he had forsaken his kinship with the Fey when he had taken his Vows. Some part of him is perversely glad that Father is not here to see him break them. But he cannot be in two Brotherhoods, not these brotherhoods anyway. Not when they are against each other. Joining the Paladins felt as though he was moving closer to God. Joining the Fey feels as though it should be moving away from Him. Lancelot realizes everything has been stripped away from him piece by piece. Goliath is the only thing that truly remains.

And yet for all that he should feel himself moving from God, there’s a quiet in his soul he’s not sure he’s ever felt. If that is the Devil playing tricks, it’s a good one. But something tells him it is not. It feels too right to be anything so sinister. Like surfacing for air after spending minutes drowning. The first breath always hurts, the ones that follow are easier. Sweeter.

“So how does it feel?” Pym asks, “not being a monk?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits.

“So not unbearable,” Pym says.

Lancelot shakes his head.

“Not unbearable,” he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! For anyone wondering if they’re commenting too much, you absolutely are not. If you comment on every chapter I will be nothing but grateful to have you as a reader. If you just start commenting I’m also grateful. Your feedback/comments/kudos/messages are what keep me motivated to keep getting these chapters out. So please let me know your thoughts and I will see you in the next one!


	31. Ash: Part 31

“It’s nice to see you riding,” Nimue says.

Squirrel’s been convinced to go ride in one of the wagons with the children. Only being tired from spending the previous night on the stone makes him agree. And even then he still looks upset at the idea. The blonde horse doesn’t have Goliath’s steadiness, but Pym finds she’s managing alright. Goliath is less disoriented than she would have thought, but she thinks that has to do with how well trained he is. He’s good at following commands.

“You have no idea how much I regret turning you down for those lessons,” she says, “to be fair I never thought my life would involve so much riding. Or fighting.”

Nimue smiles sympathetically. Her life was always going to include a lot of it, after all she was destined to be the Summoner. Everyone knew it before the Fallen had even made their choice clear. They’ve all had to adjust to this new world they live in, but Pym knows Nimue has some preparation. At the very least, she knows how to adjust to it. Pym still feels as though she spends her entire time flailing around, hoping that she lands in a softer place than the waves that will drown her.

“You’ll learn,” Kaze says, and though she’s unsympathetic Pym knows that the fact she’s not completely disgusted speaks of a little faith, “or you’ll hide on the isle with the rest of them.”

“Are you not going to the isle?” Pym asks.

Kaze shrugs. Nimue looks away. Pym feels the tension in the air. Getting kidnapped, dealing with the new Ash Fey, all of it has pushed her own sickness at the thought of hiding away to the back of her head. But riding with the two of them, it comes back. Churning in her stomach.

“I don’t want to go hide there either,” she admits. Nimue looks surprised. But Kaze leans forward.

“Have you got a taste for adventure?” she asks.

“I don’t—“ Pym starts and then gives up the pretense, “I think so,” she admits. Kaze grins. Pym looks at Nimue, “I don’t know. I just—I don’t think I belong hiding on the isle. Not after seeing the world.”

Nimue looks torn between disappointment and pride. But she seems to settle on the latter. Kaze grins again, showing her teeth. But the grin softens and there’s something understanding in her gaze.

“Seeing the world will always make it hard to go home, no matter how lucky you are to have one,” she says, “some people are meant for certain things.”

“Oh I’m not meant for anything,” Pym says with a laugh. Nimue and Kaze trade looks, “the last time someone said I was meant for something, he was trying to marry me and make me spend the rest of my life cleaning fish guts off the docks.”

It’s a simplification but it gets the point across. Neither of them judges her for not wanting that. They trade another look and then Nimue makes a face of disgust and Kaze echoes it with an eye roll.

“Don’t listen to men,” they both say and Pym is inclined to agree.

They pause briefly to give people a chance to eat and those who are not used to riding a chance to stretch their legs. For the first time Pym feels a glimmer of annoyance at having to stop. It’s an odd thing considering quite recently she was one of the people who would need it. She pushes the annoyance away and focuses on the memory of how recently she was like that to find sympathy. She checks to make sure Tristain is still out, the iron still on her wrists. Then she checks to make sure Goliath is alright.

“Is the horse behaving?” Lancelot asks.

“He’s doing well,” Pym says, “how’s Goliath?”  
  
“Adjusting,” Lancelot tells her.

It’s a brief conversation before Gawain summons him to discuss something. Lancelot seems to be more relaxed around him than he is around any other, though Squirrel is close. Squirrel waves at her and then goes over to the two of them. Wisely, they don’t tell him to go away and Pym just hopes that whatever they are talking about doesn’t give him nightmares. Even though a part of her wants to go over to them, the rest of her craves the familiarity of Nimue and the company of Kaze and Guinevere. Though the latter is keeping to herself.

“We’re going to move out,” Nimue says. Pym nods and looks around. Nimue touches her arm, “what is it?”

It’s embarrassing to admit she’s not gotten onto the horse herself. She most used to Lancelot or Nimue helping her up. It’s on her tongue to deny there’s anything wrong, but despite the awe inspiring thing Nimue has become, she’s still the friend that Pym grew up with.

“I need help getting on the horse,” Pym admits finally.

“Not for long,” Nimue says, grabbing her hand, “come, I’ll teach you.”

Pym smiles and nods, following as Nimue takes them to the horses. She holds the reins and motions Pymp to the side, holding out the stirrup.

“Here,” Nimue says, “put your foot there. And your hands here,” she says, pointing to the saddle. Pym grasps the leather, “now pull yourself up.”

“That’s the part that gets me,” Pym says.

“Come on, count of three,” Nimue says, like they’re girls again about to jump into the lake on wash day, “one, two, three!”

Just like on wash day, Pym heaves herself forward and manages to get her leg over the saddle. The horse snorts but she shoves her foot into the stirrup and grabs the reins. Besides she knows Nimue is there to make sure the horse doesn’t just run off. An excited laugh escapes her lips at the self sufficiency and Nimue beams up at her. She and Kaze mount far more gracefully, but Pym feels pride anyways. Just for getting herself up into the saddle.

The minor victory feels significant. Or maybe it’s the admission of her feelings and the immediate acceptance of them. Or maybe it’s just the familiarity of riding with Nimue, even if it’s strange to be on a different mount. But either way when they make camp for the night she feels stronger somehow. Like she’s slept well which is something that definitely has not happened in a long time. So well that when everything is settled, she gathers up her bag because this has gone on long enough and heads to the stones. Someone has to deal with Tristain’s injuries. And it doesn’t seem as though it’s going to be anyone else. She’s not the best healer, but as she told Arthur that first day, she’s better than no healer. The others are in there with Tristain but she can do something. But right as she reaches the stones, the door appears and slams open.

Lancelot storms out.

If there was another door, Pym thinks he’d break it. Or burn it. He’s furious. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him angry like this. Whatever has happened between him and Tristain he looks as though he’s going to do something stupid. The last time she saw him crippled by his emotions, it ended with him being stabbed. She has her knife on her, but that isn’t an experience she’s anxious to repeat. She’s also not terribly anxious to go after someone who could very easily reduce them all to fine white ash. But the alternative involves stabbing and she’s not Raider enough to want that yet, so she goes.

“Lancelot, hold on—“

“Stay there,” he says.

“No,” she retorts, “you’re about to—“ she hesitates and remembers that everyone already knows. Lancelot quickens his pace, “stop heading towards the forest!”

He makes a sound and keeps walking towards it. Pym wishes that she could trust he would be alright like she could trust he would come after her or that he would protect Squirrel. But he seems to be one of those utterly infuriating types who cares more about others skin than his own. She touches his arm and he spins so quickly that she nearly trips over her own feet. She’s not sure if touching him was the right or wrong thing to do, but green sparks around his fingers quicker than she’s seen before.

Her hand automatically goes for her knife and she looks away, but he doesn’t seem as in shock as the first time she saw him do this. The anger is written plain on his face, but frustration also fills his features. She knows he doesn’t understand what is happening anymore than she does. The easiest thing would be to physically hurt him, as Father Carden seems to have orchestrated everything to do. But that isn’t a good way to live. Lancelot turns as though there might be answers somewhere. She realizes that though the fire is still blinding, it’s not nearly as bad as it was. Maybe because there’s less of it, or there’s just the fire and not the fuel.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees movement.

“No!” She grabs Squirrel.

“I can help him, no-one can see,” Squirrel protests but she holds him tightly.

“You’re right, no-one can see. And you can help him. But he has to try first,” she says. Squirrel looks up at her like she’s lost her mind and maybe she has. Actually she’s fairly certain she has. But she just tightens her arms around the boy and looks Lancelot in the eye, “just try.”

“I don’t know how,” Lancelot says through gritted teeth.

“It’s like when you’re hungry and you eat,” Squirrel says, “and then you’re full and so you stop before you get sick. You have to focus on that full feeling. When you don’t need to eat anymore.”

Lancelot looks at him blankly and Pym wonders if he’s ever managed to eat his fill. No bodily pleasures. Lancelot doesn’t even remember his own bread. She tries to think of something comparable and her stomach gives an unfortunately flip. But not as badly as it flips when the flames start to curl around his wrists and up his arms.

“Pray,” she says. They both look at her, “I’ve seen what your brethren eat, the fullness metaphor isn’t going to work. Try praying. You know how you feel after that.”

He stares at them both blankly and Pym wonders if he can even hear them. The marks under his eyes start to take on a greenish sheen, reflecting the fire as it gets closer. If it goes to his shirt or his cloak, she doesn’t know what will happen. He rips his eyes from them and turns his head. She sees lips move silently and she sees the fire slow. It stops spreading and trembles, but if she had to bet on anything putting up a fight against the legendary Fire, Lancelot’s faith is probably it. The fire seems to tremble again and then like watching it grow in reverse, it slides back around his hands and winks out.

“No way,” Squirrel says, “see, it worked!”

He shrugs her off and closes the distance with Lancelot. Pym itches to grab him back but simultaneously feels as though it actually worked. The frustration is still plain on Lancelot’s face, as is the anger. But it’s tempered. At the very least there’s no legendary Fire being created because of it. That’s something. It’s one way that keeps them all safer. And it doesn’t include anyone getting stabbed. They’re words, she has to remind herself. There is a difference between saying them and doing what the Paladins did. Surely if he prays quietly it’s not the end of the world. It’s better than being burned alive.

“That was clever,” Gawain says, nearly scaring her out of her skin.

Pym turns and looks at the Knight. At what he’s become. She’s seen him of course, but not alone. Not like this. It’s hard to see one of her friends having become what he’s turn into. To still see glimmers of who he was, mixed in with everything else. Only the acceptance in his gaze makes her not want to pull her hair out in anguish. He doesn’t look at Lancelot with fear or anger or disgust. He doesn’t look at anything with it. But in the case of Lancelot, there’s something much closer to the pride that she sees when he looks at Squirrel. It’s odd to think that those things she feels so strongly might go away with death, replaced by something better. Or maybe if the same was to happen to her, she would only be able to feel the bad things.

“I’ve just seen him do it before,” she dismisses, “it’s being observant. There’s nothing clever about it.”

He gives her the faintest smile and looks at Squirrel and Lancelot.

“I saw as well,” he says, “though you were always the most observant of us.”

“Saw what?” She asks, unable to help herself.

“That he could be one of us,” Gawain explains, “that he did not believe as much as he claimed.”

Pym falters. She’s not sure if she truly saw that or if Squirrel just convinced her to at least try. It was probably the latter. The more time Lancelot spends among his kind, the more she sees everything he’s pushed down fighting to come back to life. She would say that it was pushed down far, but the more he learns to speak the more she thinks he just learned how to hide it well.

  
“It doesn’t change what he’s done,” she says. Gawain looks at her, “he still murdered all those Fey and burned down our homes—you would still be alive if he hadn’t taken you.”

Gawain is quiet for a moment. How something like what he is gives her words any weight is baffling. But he considers them.

“I told him to go back to his people after he had taken me,” Gawain says, “when I was more dead than alive. I could not have reached him without being taken,” he looks back at the pair of them, “and because of that Squirrel is alive.”

“You would have saved Squirrel,” she corrects.

Gawain nods.

“I would have,” Gawain says, “but he may still grow to fear the Paladins and the world of men. Now, I don’t think he will.”

Pym knows he’s right but it’s a very strange thing to think. That there is good in what happened. Real good, not just the salvaging of a terrible situation. Gawain has no reason to lie to her. He seems at peace, or beyond the need for her understanding of peace.

“How did you forgive him for—for any of it?” She asks and then reconsiders, “did you forgive him?”

“I am a Knight,” he says, “I uphold our code,” he looks briefly pained, as though remembering something, “no-one looked for survivors in the beginning. Not of the Ash Folk.”

Pym has heard stories but nothing like what he speaks about. The Ash Folk were legends even as she grew. They were a Folk who had turned their backs on the rest of them, retreated to another land. She also knows as the Paladins made their way up the coast, all the Folk tried to separate and hide on their own. But she knows that Gawain was among the first to refuse, to argue that they should all stand together and not be independent from one another. Not when they could help.

“You had nothing to do with that,” Pym says.

“I am a part of that legacy,” Gawain says, “as are all Knights. The good and the bad,” he looks at her, “I saw what happened to those who were lost. To those we chose not to come for. We thought it was safer,” he looks sad, “cowardice is never safe.”

Pym is silent for a moment.

“He’s not your fault,” she says.

“No,” Gawain agrees, “he is not. It wouldn’t be my fault if Squirrel had passed onto the twilight or if you had joined him when the Paladins took you,” Pym winces, even though she agrees, “it would not be anyone’s fault but the Paladins. But you both saw differently. You acted differently. And you are still here. I cannot be anything but glad for that.”

“Squirrel saw,” Pym corrects, “I didn’t.”

“I wonder how much he learned from your acceptance of Nimue,” he says.

Pym sighs. All the little ones were afraid of Nimue. How could they not be with how their parents spoke of her? Squirrel had been the bravest, he had just needed to see someone his parents spoke well of being friends with her.

“I just encouraged him. He would have figured that out on his own as well,” she says.

“He would probably say the same of you,” Gawain muses.

Pym shakes her head.

“Squirrel still accepts him more,” she admits finally, “he’s the one who thinks like you do. I try but it’s not the same.”

It hurts to admit it aloud, even though she’s told it to Lancelot. But Gawain is the best of them, he always has been. A Knight good enough to be accepting of man and Fey. To reach out to those who would not accept it and bring them to a better place. If anyone had to make Squirrel a Knight, she is glad it was Gawain. He looks at her as though searching for some indication she’s lying. He must see that she’s not because the piercing look leaves his face and he nods his head. Pym relaxes, though her gladness that he’s let go of his teasing and insistence on being right is somewhat tempered by missing it. But it’s another thing he has no use for.

“You should teach them about your Code,” she says.

“I will.”

She nods and folds her arms, watching the two of them. She nods at Gawain to excuse herself to go over there.

“Pym,” she turns to her old friend, “you missed one when you picked the others up,” he says and tosses her one of the beads.

Heat foods her face but when she raises her head to defend herself Gawain simply winks and walks off to Nimue and the others. Pym takes a deep breath and repeats herself in her own head. How this means nothing. How things are still complicated and difficult.

Then she shoves the bead into her pocket and walks over to Lancelot and Squirrel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to anikasaotome who made a totally gorgeous piece of fan art which is queued up on my Tumblr. You are amazingly talented and I love the images you put together.
> 
> Feedback is love! Thank you for the art, kudos, comments, Tumblr messages. There's never too many of them and I'm so so grateful that we're on this lil tugboat together. Please let me know your thoughts and I will see you in the next chapter!


	32. Ash: Part 32

He joins Arthur on watch.

Or rather, after they make camp and he succeeds in shutting off the Fire, Arthur finds him and says that they are on watch together. Lancelot agrees and sees Pym and Squirrel to camp with the others. Arthur hands him a bow and they take their positions on the outskirts of the camp. He’s always been one for silence in watch. It’s been many years since he’s had anyone that he particularly cared to talk to. Or years since he was ever on watch with just one person. No Paladin ever felt comfortable being with him alone.

Arthur focuses on the task at hand but gives no indication of being afraid of him. It’s an odd thing, especially in a man-blood. There is usually an undercurrent of wariness. Even those who conceal it decently don’t do it well. But Arthur is only tense when he looks out into the woods. He turns his back to him without any concern that Lancelot will plunge a knife into it. The trust grates at him like a bug bite until he gives in.

“Did you see the Fire on the ship?” He asks finally.

“Ah, no,” Arthur admits with an almost self deprecating grin, “I just saw Pym. I figured I could spare someone from a little more pain,” he looks at him, “besides I owed you a hit from the woods.”

Lancelot considers his words. There’s no malice in them, which is something he would expect. From a man-blood especially. But Arthur shows him the respect of one warrior to another. Which, Lancelot realizes, he’s been doing for longer than the boat.

“You have no reason—“ he starts. Arthur raises an eyebrow, “why?” He asks again.

“Pym didn’t say anything?” Arthur asks. Lancelot shakes his head. Arthur nods and the respect in his eyes for Pym almost makes Lancelot’s annoyance worth it, “she wasn’t supposed to,” Arthur adds quickly, “but I wasn’t sure—“

“She doesn’t betray her friends,” Lancelot cuts in quickly.

“I’ve seen that,” Arthur assures him. He hesitates a moment before continuing, “my father left me with his debts when I was a boy,” he says, “Morgana was shipped off to the abbey. I was twelve,” he adds. He shrugs, “I know what it’s like for one decision as a boy to change the course of your life. And not in the way you had hoped.”

Lancelot ignores the urge to point out the difference in those decisions. Instead he forces himself to at least try to see what Arthur is doing. Talking about his childhood doesn’t seem to be something that he does readily. Offering it up to him like this is not something Lancelot thinks he would do in return. Not like this. Arthur seems more nervous speaking about his childhood and explaining his actions than he does standing in the middle of the woods with an enemy.

“Nimue is back,” he says instead. Arthur stiffens, “are you not pleased?”

“Of course I am,” Arthur says quickly, “it’s just complicated,” Lancelot looks at him blankly, “Nimue’s first duty is to her people,” Arthur says, “she’s their Queen. I’m a mercenary at best,” he explains, “and a man-blood.”

“She can’t be with you and be their Queen?” Lancelot says.

“She can, I’m just not sure she should,” he says, “if you serve something like that, it comes first,” he looks over at him, “you’re a man of God. Doesn’t He come first?”

Lancelot opens his mouth to explain again that he’s not a monk but that He does come first. But he realizes he doesn’t know the answer much himself. He’s spent his entire life living a certain way, denying things he cannot deny anymore. Otherwise he would have his hairshirt on. He would continue to live that life of pain, obey it’s siren call.

“I’m not sure anymore,” he says finally.

Arthur looks at him sympathetically.

“It’s not easy losing everything you once knew,” he says. It should be an unnecessary observation but Lancelot nods anyway, “not to mention The Red Spear won’t speak to me.”

“I’ve noticed,” Lancelot says, “what will you do?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” Arthur says, “it’s not like we were doing anything,” he adds quickly, “or even sure of our feelings—“ he shakes his head, “I’m not sure how you convince a Raider to forgive you for the girl you loved coming back to life.”

“Bring her Cumber’s head,” Lancelot says, “she seems to want that.”

Arthur looks at him and then laughs, doing his best to stifle it. Lancelot is forced to admit his interactions with women, especially in the romance area, are not many. Apparently doing the thing that the Red Spear won’t shut up about isn’t something that Arthur considered. Though it seems quite obvious to Lancelot.

“I never thought about winning a woman’s heart with a severed head,” he says, “but you might be right,” he shakes his head, “I can’t wait to see how Squirrel wins girl’s hearts with your advice.”

“By listening,” Lancelot says with a shrug.

“Ah,” Arthur goes quiet for a moment and looks around before looking back at him, “have you been thinking about any Fey maidens?”

  
It’s a legitimate question to ask. Lancelot wonders if he means Tristain, though the Ash Fey would rather gut him. Which seems to be a shared sentiment but Lancelot can see how the idea of two Ash Fey would make sense. There are so few of them. But like most Paladins and Guard members, the extinction of the Fey is her end goal.

“No,” Lancelot says, “the Fey are still afraid of me.”

“Well I know one that isn’t,” Arthur says.

“Murdering me isn’t preferable.”

“I didn’t think Pym wanted to murder you, she does seem to go out of her way to make sure you’re alive.”

Lancelot looks at him in surprise. He’s lucky that there aren’t any enemies around, he nearly drops the bow. Arthur catches his eye and the surprise must be obvious on Lancelot’s face because the man-blood’s expression goes from surprised to amused to sympathetic.  
  
“Are you two—“ Arthur starts.

“No,” he says quickly. His heart kicks faster, “do people think—“ he hesitates, “she doesn’t forgive me for what I’ve done. She’s a member of the Sky Folk, before she’s anything else.”

“People have just seen you two sneaking off together,” Arthur says, “I’d ignore what they’re saying,” he tells him, “you must be used to people talking about you. Don’t let gossip keep you from spending time with your—ah—friend.”

Lancelot nods. He doesn’t plan to. He’s fairly confident in the bond he has with Pym being friendship, but he doesn’t think she wants to call it such. Despite her declaring her loyalty and him trusting in it, he imagines saying that they are friends will put her in a strange position. He’s also aware from the one time he accidentally put some slight distance between them by not telling her his part of the plan, she was upset. It’s not an experience he has any interest in repeating. For all that his past actions seem to constantly upset her, along with her own feelings on being kind to him, the difference in those and her reaction to him distancing himself slightly is sharp. He doesn’t fully understand it but he knows that being away from him isn’t something she wants. He doesn’t either, he enjoys her company.

“We feel comfortable speaking to each other,” he says.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Arthur assures him and then, as though sensing something, he sighs, “you feel comfortable speaking to each other and—“

“We understand each other,” Lancelot says, “neither of us feel entirely Fey.”

Something like understanding shows on Arthur’s face and he nods.

“It’s good you two have each other then,” he says. It’s not what Lancelot was expecting to hear, “listening to what women want is good advice,” Arthur says after a moment, “in case your feelings towards each other ever change.”

“They won’t,” Lancelot says.

“I’m beginning to think being stubborn is a requirement for being a part of the Church,” Arthur remarks.

They pass the rest of their watch in silence. Lancelot pushes the thoughts of what Arthur has said to the back of his head and focuses on what he can understand. What he can do. At the moment that is keep Arthur and the rest of the people in their camp safe. When they are relieved of their watch, Arthur nods to him and heads back. Belatedly Lancelot realizes he doesn’t ask for the bow back. Whatever he’s said, it hasn’t been enough to make Arthur act as though he is a threat. It’s a complicated, humbling realization. But not one that he finds unpleasant. Lancelot makes his way silently to the tent where Pym and Squirrel are. They haven’t discussed sleeping arrangements but he has no issue with sleeping outside near Goliath.

He hasn’t been there long when he hears Pym whimper.

She’s just been kidnapped and he’s known to keep an eye on her. She escaped last time and this time, she arguably got away fine. But he can see that the inevitable crash is coming. She’s been too busy with her friends to notice which he is both grateful for and troubled by. Every day the isle draws closer and he has to think more about what will happen next. The idea of her going would be sensible. More sensible than even being with the Raiders, though anything would be better than her being on the coast. The Paladins won’t stop. The Church won’t stop. But no matter where she goes if she doesn’t learn to be aware of what’s going on around her, she’ll be in trouble.

When he hears her whimper, he knows she’s having a nightmare.

The Paladins learn to stifle anything of the sort. Though he knows most of them sleep just fine. He’s always been wracked by nightmares. But he’s learned to keep himself quiet, to push them away. He doesn’t remember them half the time anymore. Leaving her at their mercy is not something he considers, it’s more the fact that she is sleeping that makes him hesitate. But she whimpers again and he pushes past the hesitation, reasoning that if she was expecting him to come for her when they were awake this is a similar thing.

Squirrel is curled up on his side of the tent and Lancelot makes sure the boy is still asleep before he goes over to Pym. She is curled into a ball, but her hand sticks out from the bedroll, clenched tightly. It feels like a lifetime ago that she got the burn on her palm trying to keep him from being hurt. The skin is still dark with fresh healing. He knows she’ll have a scar.

“Pym,” he says her name softly, but she doesn’t move.

He hesitates a moment before touching her shoulder. Logically it should work but she doesn’t wake up. His own inexperience comes woefully into play. Thankfully he remembers the foul smelling salts that she gave him for when the smell of Fey using their magic was too much. He leans forward and waves them under her nose. Some combination of his hand on her shoulder and whatever is in that vial seem to do the trick and her eyes fly open.

“You’re alright,” he says softly.

She looks over her shoulder at him. He half expects her to go for the knife or to look at him with fear, but her eyes focus after a moment and then she relaxes. She sits up and presses her hand to her forehead. She looks over at the sheet and back at him and he shakes his head, letting her know Squirrel is still asleep. He offers her his hand and she takes it, getting up into a couch and stepping out into the night. She drops his hand when they get outside, folding her arms over her chest.

“Sorry,” she says, “thank you for waking me up,” she sighs, “I wasn’t screaming was I?”

“No,” he says.

“Good.”

She falls silent. He knows that she is usually the one to guide their conversations. His own abilities are still a work in progress. But she doesn’t seem in the mood to talk. She still seems shaken by whatever it is she has dreamed about. He’s not sure if it was the Paladins, the Guard, the Raiders, him—the list is unsettlingly long. Everything he thinks of saying ties back to one of those topics. It leaves him at a kind of loss. He has no trouble with silence but he’s never seen Pym to be the silent one.

It’s Goliath who solves things.

He comes up and pushes his nose into Pym’s hand, batting it up until she gets the message and obediently scratches him. He must pick up on the fear that comes off her. It’s not the first time Goliath has comforted a Fey after a nightmare. Unfortunately it won’t be the last. As she scratches him, he steps closer until she has to look at him. He demands all her attention like he always does whenever Lancelot wakes from a nightmare. It takes Pym a moment longer but when she sighs and focuses on him it seems to make her entire body relax.

“Thank you,” she says. He’s not sure if she means him or Goliath, but when she looks at him he thinks she means him so he nods in acknowledgement, “how was your watch?”

“Uneventful,” he says.

“That’s good,” she remarks, “something should be for once,” she shakes her head, “I keep smelling that hood,” she says.

“It’s alcohol, nightshade, hemlock, opium, lettuce and vinegar,” he says, “the hood is soaked in it. But you swallowed it,” she looks at him, “they push it into your mouth and when you sweat, it mixes.”

He waits for the information to upset her but she considers it for a moment before nodding.

“So there’s nothing that can render you unconscious just by smelling it?”

“Not that the Paladins use.”

She seems to relax more.

“That’s good,” she says with an almost nervous smile, “I don’t know why I thought that. It seems ridiculous.”

“Confusion is a tactic they use,” he says, “it’s been refined and well honed,” she doesn’t seem convinced, “you won’t fall for it if they come again.”

“No,” she agrees, “the third time will be the charm,” he looks at her blankly, “it’s a Fey expression,” she smiles a bit more genuinely, “thank you for not saying it won’t happen again just to make me feel better.”

“If you’re planning on traveling with the Raiders it may,” he says, “the Paladins are their enemies. They make take you even after we’ve parted ways.”

She looks over at him with confusion. Then the determination he’s used to seeing comes across her face and she turns back to Goliath.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she says, “and you and Squirrel probably have training and adventures and knightly things to do,” she looks at him, “but I don’t want to part ways when we reach the isle.”

“Squirrel—“ he starts.

“Not Squirrel,” she cuts off, “well, of course I don’t want Squirrel to go. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I don’t want you to go away,” she explains directly.

It’s not a surprise, she’s fought for his presence. Father Carden did the same. He just cannot think of a reason for her to do it. He’s a skilled fighter but they have those, he’s a rare Fey but they have them as well. But she’s fought for his acceptance among the Fey and among the Raiders. There’s something about hearing her say it that confuses him. He knows the power of words but this is nothing he doesn’t know. It shouldn’t feel like he’s been caught off guard. It’s the nerves that show on her face when he looks at her and the blush that creeps up her cheeks that shakes his tongue loose.

“We’ll find a way,” he says finally, “I won’t be allowed on the ship until I know how to control it.”

“She doesn’t even have a ship so that should give you some time,” she says, “you seem to at least be able to make it stop.”

He ducks his head in acknowledgment. Making it go away is something. It’s not enough, it doesn’t give it any more use, but it at least makes him safer to be around. Slightly. She takes a deep breath and looks around, stifling a yawn.

“You should get some rest,” he says, “I’ll keep watch.”  
  
“Don’t be silly, someone else is keeping watch,” she says. He looks at her, “yes I know ,I know, but it’s not the same thing. There’s more of them posted. Besides you need to sleep as well.”

“I don’t want to wake Squirrel.”

“I’ll take down the sheet,” she says, “you can sleep in the middle.”

She undoes it with a whisper of magic. He knows better than to continue protesting. A part of him wants to stay out with Goliath but he and the horse both know that nearly three days with a few precious minutes of sleep isn’t going to make him useful. Pym goes to her side, Squirrel is still curled up on his. Lancelot lays down in between them and closes his eyes, imagining he can get a few moments of sleep and that will be enough.

The sun and Pym’s gentle shake wake him.

“Good morning,” she says and moves onto Squirrel, “good morning to you too.”

“I was awake,” Squirrel argues sleepily. He looks over at Lancelot, “when did you get in?”

“After watch,” Lancelot says.

“I want to go on watch,” Squirrel says sleepily.

“You will soon,” Lancelot says,

Squirrel nods and rubs his eyes before smiling at Pym and getting to his feet. They all follow him out of the tent and into the new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Your comments definitely help me stay motivated to pump out the chapters are rapidly as I do. There's no such thing as commenting too many times. I also accept love in the form of kudos/tumblr messages etc. Let me know your thoughts! Onwards!


	33. Ash: Part 33

Tristain grunts as Pym puts her shoulder back into place.

It’s the only indication Pym imagines she’ll get of any discomfort. Once the joint is set, she turns to the long slice across her forearm. It’s swollen. She sighs and gets up, pulling back the neck of Tristain’s robes. She’s not surprised to see swelling there as well. She turns and looks at Nimue.

“You need to heal her,” she says, “her back and arm are infected,” Nimue glances away, “Nimue. She’s going to get worse.”

“She tried to take my people,” Nimue says cooly.

“She’s practically excommunicated,” Pym says, “if you want to send a message this isn’t the way,” Nimue looks at her and falters slightly, “besides, you’ve made it clear Lancelot isn’t your people and Morgana is, but she’s isn’t Fey. Torturing her isn’t going to solve anything except making her suffer.”

Nimue hesitates and then walks over. Tristain watches her intently as she moves forward. Vines grow up her skin as she brushes her fingertips across the forearm wound. The smell of Nimue’s power gets the better of her and though Tristain tries to fight it, she turns a sick shade of green. Pym pulls Nimue back as she’s sick all over the floor. It’s disgusting and despite the awe inspiring power Nimue wields, Pym knows the utterly horrified look on her face all too well.

“It’s the smell of your magic,” Pym explains.

“He told you about that as well,” Tristain grouses.

Nimue shoots her a warning look.

“Don’t do her back yet,” Pym says, “she’s wearing a hairshirt.”

Tristain makes a noise of disgust like she cannot believe Lancelot told her that too. Pym ignores her and undoes the front of her tunic. They’ve taken her outer layers and disguised her but no one has moved to strip her to the skin. It’s a kindness Pym knows wouldn’t be reciprocated. But isn’t the whole point that Fey are brothers? She reaches for the girdle and freezes at the black clasp. It’s iron. Tristain smirks down at her and Pym looks at the scarred skin of her hands. Ignoring the revulsion that shivers down her spine, she cuts the corded leather, ignoring the iron clasp. She pulls the shirt off and covers her front with the tunic. The skin there is red and chafed, but it’s not like her back.

“Let me get the hair out,” Pym says.

“I can do that,” Nimue tells her and presses her hands to Tristain’s shoulders.

Like Lancelot her entire body tenses and goes even stiffer as her skin knits back together. Pym watches as the fresher whip marks vanish. The older ones become pink scars that fade with age. When she looks back at her palms, the angry burns are still there. Like the one still on her own hand. She knows there are limits to Nimue’s healing. She’s seen them firsthand. It seems like iron is one of them. Tristain glares over her shoulder at Nimue who meets her look easily. There’s no sign of fear on her, not like Pym felt in herself the first few times Lancelot glared at her. But it’s Nimue. She’s been at the receiving end of glares her entire life. But the green color comes back to her face and Pym just manages to get out of the way again.

“Is she going to do that every time someone uses magic?” Nimue demands.

“It’s worse in an enclosed space,” Pym explains.

“How do you _know_ that?” Nimue questions.

“I wove some willows together on our first night in the forest so we would have somewhere to sleep,” Pym says, “Lancelot explained.”

“He was already telling you how he worked a few days in?” Nimue questions.

“Yes?” Pym says, hesitating and wondering if this is going to lead to some kind of argument.

Tristain snorts, drawing their attention. Pym thinks if she hadn’t seen the destruction the Guard could cause and the death the Ash Folk were capable of, then she wouldn’t be terribly intimidating. She looks to be around their age, though the black lines that fan from her eyes make her look older. In the same way that she and Nimue used to line their eyes and stain their lips during festivals. Nimue’s disbelieving look turns angry but Pym imagines the two of them are thinking far more similar things than they would like to admit,.

“Are there any secrets he hasn’t told you?” Tristain asks.

“I wouldn’t know,” Pym replies.

“So you know he told them? Saved his own skin? He barely lasted an hour with Brother Salt before he was telling him everything,” Tristain looks her up and down, “I knew he hadn’t changed.”

The humming in Pym’s ears turns into outright roaring as the blood pounds through her. She was wondering what made Lancelot so angry but as her blood pounds she thinks that she understands. Hearing that her friends are wrong isn’t new to her. But no-one ever accused Nimue of being a coward. Still Pym knows better than to defend against what is being said. She refuses to give Tristain any opening. She looks over at Nimue who raises her eyebrows.

  
“She’s healed,” Pym says, “I think we’re done.”

“How long do you think it’ll be before he betrays you?” Tristain asks, glancing at Nimue, “he condemned his parents to die, someone like that knows no loyalty.”

“Come on, let’s just go,” Pym says as doubt shows on Nimue’s face, “she’s just trying to create trouble to save her own skin.”

“I’m not the one who sold out his people,” Tristain shoots back, “why do you think he never touches the little ones? It’s not them he’s trying to save. He’s trying to save himself.”

Pym bites her tongue for a moment longer but it seems her ability to turn the other cheek has frayed. The Raiders seem to have had some effect as she turns to Tristain.

“How long did you last with Brother Salt?” She questions.

Tristain scoffs.

“They already knew I was useful.”

“So you weren’t tortured. Because of him,” she says.

Tristain sneers and then it’s Nimue who pulls her out. Pym sucks in the fresh air and pulls her arm free. She feels the adrenaline pounding through her. She’s never had to be removed from a room before, not because of something she said. She’s not the type to speak like that. She never has been. She’s supposed to be smarter. When Nimue tries to grasp her hand, she jumps like she’s been struck.

“I don’t know why I did that,” she stammers out.

“It’s alright,” Nimue says.

“No, I know better—“ she takes a deep breath.

“It’s alright,” Nimue repeats, “she’s just trying to get under your skin. She just wants to be unchained.” Pym nods absently, “it’s also easier for her, with what the Ash Folk have done.”

Pym nods again before Nimue’s words catch up to her. She’s right, she knows that she’s right. She should be afraid of the Ash Folk after what Lancelot did. It’s just not that simple anymore. She’s used to the realization that it’s not simple being accompanied by the confusion and the guilt. The Grief. She’s not used to it not being accompanied by those things. At least, not to the same degree. Nimue is waiting for her to agree and Pym opens her mouth to explain herself and finds that she doesn’t fully know how to.

“It’s not that simple,” she says.

Nimue’s expression falters with confusion and Pym wonders how, with all the amazing things that Nimue can do, this is something that she doesn’t see. She has no reason to see it, Pym reminds herself. But it makes her doubt her own feelings. Nimue can do things that Pym can’t even dream of being able to do, what business does someone like her have in not viewing Lancelot like everyone else does?

“I know he’s your friend—“ Nimue starts.

“And Squirrel’s,” Pym adds.

“Who he kidnapped,” Nimue blurts out. Pym knows she’s just stuck her own foot in her mouth. Lancelot took Squirrel, there’s absolutely no way around it, “I know, it’s not that simple,” Nimue starts.

“I’m not saying he hasn’t done terrible things,” Pym says, “it’s just—“

“He’s your friend,” Nimue finishes.

“I think he’s become one?” Pym says. Nimue arches her eyebrows at the questioning tone, “I don’t think Squirrel or I would have given him a chance if we weren’t friends with you—“

“I am nothing like him,” Nimue says and Pym realizes her mistake, “I didn’t choose to hunt my own kind with my power. Or kill my mother. Or hunt me down like some kind of animal,” she says, “we aren’t alike.”

“I know,” Pym says quickly.

“So then why are you wasting your time trying to care about the man who killed our friends?” Nimue questions.

“It’s not that simple—“ Pym tries.

“So explain it to me,” Nimue says, crossing her arms.

She’s serious and Pym realizes she doesn’t have the words. Worse, she doesn’t know how to explain anything that’s going on in her stomach at the moment. But she knows for sure that if she tries right now she’s going to say something stupid and make this mess so much worse. She shakes her head and turns away.

“Don’t walk away,” Nimue says and her voice takes on a tone that Pym has only heard her use once before, “I command you to stop!”

Pym freezes and realizes it’s her own body that’s doing it. She curls her fingers into fists and feels the burn mark. She’s been brave. She’s been brave even without the weight of the amulet. Nimue is behind her breathing roughly and Pym tries not to think of wolves. She picks up her foot and commands herself to walk forward. She doesn’t know why she goes in the direction she’s going or even if she truly has one. Not until she hears the methodic scraping of a whetstone.

She finds Guinevere sharpening her spear. Guinevere looks up at her but no threats come from her lips, so Pym sits down. Guinevere glances at the knife and then turns back to her spear, continuing to work on the blade. She doesn’t start the conversation and Pym tells herself that she’ll respect the silence, even as her foot starts to tap nervously. The stone pauses, then resumes. The pauses again. Finally Guinevere rolls her eyes and sets it down.

“Out with it,” she says.

“How do you be an exile?” Pym blurts out, “how do you turn away from everything you knew? The person you swore to follow? Did you know it wasn’t right for you and just decide to do it anyway? How do you live with yourself?”

Guinevere narrows her eyes.

“I’m not talking about against you,” Pym adds.

“Good,” Guinevere says. She goes silent and back to sharpening. Pym thinks for a moment that she may just be ignoring what she said. Or maybe she doesn’t give advice. Maybe Pym’s just generally wasting her time— “you decide something’s more important. You focus on that.”

“But what if you’re not sure if it’s more important? Or it’s something you think might be but it’s ridiculous to think that it is?”

“You just decide that it is,” Guinevere snaps.

“Even if it’s ridiculous?”

“It’s your life, isn’t it?” Guinevere says. Pym realizes she’s expecting an answer and belatedly nods, “so why do you care if people think it’s ridiculous?”

“People matter,” Pym says.

“Not if they’re making you miserable,” Guinevere points out.

“It’s not that simple,” Pym says again and wonders how that has become her most repeated phrase.

“Of course it is,” Guinevere dismisses, “the things that matter are always simple. You’re complicating it because you don’t want to do the hard thing.”

Pym hangs her head, wondering if she’s right or if there’s any point in saying that this isn’t the same. Raiders seem to make decisions based on life or death, and that does seem to boil down to simplicity. They want to be alive so they find a way to do that. They need a healer, they get one. It makes simplistic, brutal sense. Guinevere deems her spear sharp enough and holds out her hand. After a moment Pym realizes that she’s waiting for the knife and she hands it to her.

“Did Cumber send you into exile against your will?”

“No,” she says, “he gave me a choice. Serve him or leave,” she starts to work on the knife, “so I left.”

“He seems terrible,” Pym says. Guinevere nods but doesn’t look pleased at the assessment, “do you still feel loyal to him?”

“Not as my king,” she says, “and I’m a grown woman, I have no use for obeying my father.”

It takes a moment for the words to register and then Pym manages to choke on nothing but the spit in her mouth. Though when she thinks to the Ice King’s daughters, Guinevere suddenly seems a lot more like a princess than Pym ever would have thought. Guinevere watches her cough and sputter.

“He’s your what?!” Pym gets out. Guinevere looks shocked at her reaction, “I’ve been on your ship. You don’t act like his daughter—“

Guinevere gets up in a smooth, fast motion that would make Pym think she wasn’t human. Suddenly she’s in front of her, bearing down on her. Pym swallows and tries not to think about how dark rimmed eyes seem to mean Fey death in this world.

“And you’re a Fey whose here talking to me about defending the one whose murdered all your kin,” Guinevere says.

“Fair enough,” Pym squeaks.

Guinevere holds her gaze for another moment before walking slowly back to her previous perch and resuming sharpening.

“So Eydis—“

“Both my sisters,” she says. Pym nods. Guinevere sighs and stops sharpening, “They sided with Cumber.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Guinevere picks up the stone and resumes, but there’s a force to her movements that wasn’t there before.

“He killed our mother.” Pym looks at her sharply, “tried to pass it off as an accident. But my mother’s ghost appeared to me, she told me what happened,” she sharpens again, “they said it didn’t matter, that if she died at our father’s hands he was still our father. Like she was just his property to do as he wished,” her lip curls in disgust, “I refuse to let a man tell me what to do. Not my father, not one I marry.”

“I can’t believe you’re a princess,” Pym confesses, “though I suppose that’s why you don’t want anyone to know your name.”

Guinevere looks at her for a long moment and then nods. She tests the knife and then flips it over, offering Pym the handle. When Pym reaches for it, she pulls it out of her grasp and looks her dead in the eye.

“Stop complicating things,” she says, “and get on with it.” Pym takes the knife from her and Guinevere picks up her spear, “everyone on my ship came from somewhere else,” she adds, not looking up at Pym, “but if you try to mutiny on me I’ll throw you overboard,” she nods, though she gets the impression that Guinevere saw even if she doesn’t look up, “and remember that fire starter isn’t allowed on my boat until he learns to control the damn stuff.”

Pym walks off with the strangest urge to hug her. But she would like to keep her guts inside her skin. Instead she finds Nimue and Morgana. Morgana sees her first and Nimue is up in a moment, walking over. She looks sorry but Pym doesn’t trust the look. No more than she trusts her own ability to explain everything without sticking her foot in her mouth again.

“You’re right,” she says, “you two aren’t the same. You’re a good person, you always have been. You wouldn’t do anything that Lancelot’s done to the Fey,” she swallows, “but he’s my friend as well. I hate that we weren’t together with everything, that we’ve been apart for so long. I hate what he’s done,” she says, “but I do trust him. We’ve become friends. I understand if you don’t like that, but it’s not going to change my mind,” she fights the urge to fiddle with her braid, “I hope you can respect that. That and—I’m not going to the isle if he can’t come with us.”

  
Nimue looks surprised. Morgana looks disgusted. Pym shoves aside the thought that she has no business saying any of this to two people who could kill her with a thought.

  
“Where will you go?” Morgana asks, though her tone is kinder than Pym would have expected.

“The Red Spear has said I can go with her,” Pym says.

“I thought you wanted to stay off the isle to have adventures,” Nimue says.

“I do,” Pym agrees, “but I won’t go somewhere my fellow Fey cannot.”

“It’s not your fellow Fey,” Nimue says.

“He is to me,” Pym replies. It’s the steadiest she’s managed to make her voice, “and not only to me,” she adds, “but that’s not what matters. It’s my decision.”

Nimue looks at her quietly for a moment. Morgana does at well. But while sadness shines from Nimue, there’s something closer to pride in Morgana’s eyes. For what, Pym isn’t sure. But it helps her stand up a little straighter before a weight seems to settle on Nimue and the sadness gets pushed back.

“We can figure that out when we get to the isle,” Morgana says, looking between them, “in the meantime Nimue and I have other preparations to discuss.”

“Right,” Nimue says, “thank you for telling me.”

Pym nods and wonders how something can be so empty it aches. She feels untethered. Worse, she feels relieved. Maybe it have made a decision, maybe because she’s been honest, she’s not sure. But that longing for the girl she was before this seems to have released whatever stranglehold it had on her.

She feels free.

It hurts less when Morgana and Nimue turn back to each other and she turns to walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anikasaotome who made a gorgeous collage and AtmaVichar who drew beautiful fan art again. Both are queued up on my Tumblrs. Just as a heads up the VenomRPs tumblr is the one on my phone so I check it more often.
> 
> So for Guinevere I fully think she's royalty. Guinevere usually has two antagonistic half siblings she goes against who I think are the ice king's daughters in this show.
> 
> Feedback is love! Thank you for the wonderful comments/kudos/tumblr messages. They mean the world to me. You all keep me so inspired. Please let me know your thoughts and I will see you in the next chapter!


	34. Ash: Part 34

“This is uncomfortable.”

“This is boring.”

“What’s the point of this?”

“When can I learn to do that instead?”

Lancelot opens his eyes and regards Squirrel. He’s bent in half, reaching for his toes. The boy has courage in spades. All the things that cannot be taught, but the things that can be are more of a mixed bag. He’s decent with a bow, he’s quick on his feet but if he runs at the Guard blindly swinging a blade he will be killed. He has no foundation. Lancelot has never been a teacher in this way. But getting the boy working on his flexibility is a good place to start.

It is not the most interesting part.

Lancelot remembers arguing something similar. Once. He will not entertain using those methods on Squirrel, even if the idea of gagging him is more tempting than he wishes to admit. Instead he unwinds from his own posture and lowers his feet back to the ground. Squirrel goes to stand up and Lancelot stops him with a hand on the back of his neck. Not forcing but letting him know it isn’t time to get up.

“You have no foundation,” he says.

“Foundations are boring,” Squirrel argues.

“Foundations are essential,” comes a reply, “otherwise you just have a tent that can be blown away by a strong wind.”

Squirrel stands up and looks at Kaze. Kaze regards the pair of them neutrally. Lancelot picked this spot away from the rest of the camp. He should have know he wouldn’t be the only one seeking space and privacy. It’s been too long since he trained properly and this isn’t even that. He’s not sure what this is. Just that the last time he did any sort of training he was a man of the cloth and the only hide he had to worry about was his own. His own and Goliath. He doubts he would have acknowledged that back then in the same way he can acknowledge it now.

“Do you have a strong foundation?” Squirrel asks, “didn’t Lancelot beat you?”

Lancelot looks at him sharply but Squirrel meets his eyes and shrugs. He did beat them both, but this isn’t the time to be bringing that up. Kaze doesn’t look furious about it though. She recognizes defeat and survival are parts of life, that if you’re lucky you walk away. Or maybe it’s just that she knows better than to be upset at a rude question asked by a child.

“He beat Gawain as well,” Kaze says with a shrug, “imagine how much worse we would have been if we had not had the foundations we do.”

That makes sense to Squirrel who considers it for a moment, nods, sighs and goes back to trying to lay his hands flat on the ground. Lancelot looks up and Kaze gives him an unimpressed once-over.

“This is your first time training little ones,” she says.

“Yes,” he admits.

“That wasn’t a question,” she tells him. Lancelot realizes she’s right, “little ones need to have everything explained—once—or they’ll just complain the whole time,” Squirrel looks as though he wants to come up but this time he stays in the posture of his own volition, “progress.”

“You can come up,” he tells Squirrel who straightens up.

“Are you two going to spar?” He asks.

“No,” he says at the same time Kaze shrugs.

“I haven’t sparred this morning yet.”

He looks sharply over at her and she glances back at him. Sparring isn’t something he regularly does against opponents. His Fey nature always got the best of him with the other Paladins. It was less about improving and more about seeing how much harm one could cause the Fey. Father Carden had stopped his sparring and had him turn to tracking after a particularly well aimed blow had broken his nose. A sharp sword wasn’t made to be blunted, it was only ever used for killing. Kaze looks at him curiously and he casts his eyes around.

“Are you looking for sticks?” She says, reaching to her shoulder. He looks back at her, “we won’t spar with weapons.”

He nods and she undoes the purple fabric around her and twists it into a tight chord. He watches as she wraps it around her hand and up her arm. Her movements are practiced and efficient, something she can do easily. He looks at Squirrel who drags his eyes from her to him. Lancelot realizes he’s waiting for him to do something similar. But he removed his boots before stretching out and he has no cloth. He cuffs his pants instead and gives his ankles a quick stretch before facing her.

“Are you ready?”

He nods and steadies himself. He realizes that the nerves have shifted to excitement as she looks at him without fear or revulsion. Just a hunger for a rematch. She shifts her weight slightly and he moves his own posture. He’s never fought another Fey, not without the intention of causing them actual harm. She feints with her left hand and out of the corner of his eye he sees her right hand come towards him. It’s when he goes to evade that her foot snaps out. He blocks it. She drives him back with a series of blows that he continues to block.

He doesn’t realize she’s driving him towards the tree, when he goes to sidestep that, he has no choice but to catch her foot and then her hand solidly connects with his face.

“It would be easier if you didn’t focus so much on blocking,” she tells him, resetting back to their original starting points.

  
“The Paladins weren’t keen on sparring with a Fey,” he says, resuming his stance.

“And yet I seem to remember you having a lot of practice striking us.”

He deserves a worse verbal jab. But this time when she strikes, he blocks the blow with his shin and jabs at her face. She blocks the blow and catches his kick with her arm. He rolls with the momentum, taking her to the ground. She lets go of his leg and he takes the mount, pinning her cloth wrapped arm. She gives the ground two hard slaps and he freezes.

“That means you’ve won,” she informs him.

Stupidly, he looks at her a moment longer before releasing her arm and getting to his feet. He holds out a hand to her and she takes it, pulling herself up. He nods at her and she returns the gesture before they reset back to their original marks. This time when she strikes it’s with more confidence and when he thinks he has her pinned, she gets free and flips backwards and manages to land a good hit to his stomach before suddenly getting him in a headlock. He braces himself to have his hair pulled or his air cut off but she goes still.

“Slap your leg if you’re done,” she says.

“I’m not done,” he replies.

“Good,” she says, “slap when you are.”

She applies pressure to his neck but it’s gentle. So when he throws her over his shoulder, he takes care not to drop all her weight. She gets him into her guard and controls him easily with her legs before one of her feet plants to his hip and she postures up, flipping him over her head. He rolls to his feet and she crouches, waiting for his next move. When he steps forward, she strikes him three times and he winds up flat on his back, her knee on his chest. She raises her eyebrows at him and glances at his hand and he uses that to his advantage, flipping their positions. He gets her in another lock and she slaps the ground. He releases her and she stands up. They’re both breathing hard and damp with sweat.

“You’ll have to show me that sometime,” she says.

He nods in agreement.

They both turn to Squirrel who is watching them open mouthed. He’s been joined by Pym whose mouth is closed but whose eyes are wide as well. Arthur and Guinevere look somewhere between the pair of them. Lancelot imagines that they haven’t seen Fey spar. Truthfully he hasn’t either. Not since he was a very young boy. He’s not sure how long any of them have been standing there.

“That was amazing!” Squirrel says, “when you did the throw and you did that kick—“ he tries to imitate the moves as best he can. Lancelot fights the urge to make sure he doesn’t fall over himself, “that was so cool!”

“And that is why you need to learn how to stretch,” Kaze says.

“I’ll stretch every day if I can fight like that,” Squirrel vows.

Lancelot looks over at Pym, half expecting her to have that tense, fearful look. But she doesn’t. He thinks he must have done the sparring thing correctly if she just looks slightly impressed at the fighting. Kaze unwinds her arm, shakes out the fabric and puts it back at her waist. After taking a few of her jabs he can see why she doesn’t keep it on all the time. Pym comes over to him as he steadies his breathing, enjoying the burn in his muscles.

“You seem to have enjoyed that,” she remarks.

“I did,” he says, “I wasn’t permitted to spar with the Paladins.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll want for sparring partners,” she remarks, looking over at the group who keep glancing towards him with keen interest.

They don’t seem to be sizing him up or looking at him with the desire for revenge. He supposes that they are all past that, though from what he has seen he would put Kaze at among the most trained. In a way that he understands at least. He’s always understood movement and fighting better than words. There’s an honesty in the strike of flesh on flesh that has always been comforting in its simplicity. There’s no lie, no alternative meaning, no absent Grace. It’s a language he speaks.

He looks over at Pym.

Something has changed.

Lancelot doesn’t know what it is. Pym seems more relaxed than he’s seen her before, as if some great weight has been eased. Her scent is no longer tinged with panic, her shoulders are not as stiff. The stress that has altered her scent seems far less.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks.

“Oh, yes,” she says, “why do you ask?”

“You seem more relaxed,” he says.

She looks away and her cheeks start to stain with color. He wonders if this is the kind of thing he shouldn’t comment on, but it also seems like a reasonable thing to ask. She gives a slight shrug and looks about before turning to face him.

“I’ve realized we’re friends,” she says, “and I’ve realized it’s something I’ve accepted and feeling badly about it because it seems like I should—seems foolish,” she explains, “I’m not saying that it’s that simple, but in a way I suppose it is,” he watches the blush get worse, “I suppose what I’m trying to say is I think I believe you.”

It’s not something that he thinks should surprise him. Or words that should have an effect on him. Not just after the was relishing in the language that he does understand. But Pym has been nothing but honest with him. Honest and kinder than he deserves. He’s never had someone fight for him with no ulterior motive. She tucks her hair behind her ears and folds her arms and he realizes that she’s waiting for him to say something.

“I’m glad,” he says.

“Good,” she replies, “I am too,” she adds, “it feels better to accept it.”

That’s something he understands. He feels himself slowly starting to accept the fact that he is a Fey. That these are his people. They always have been on some level. He’s not sure if he will ever find acceptance here—though as he looks over at Kaze and Squirrel he thinks that is better than being sure he never would. He looks back at Pym and nods.

“I’m glad we’re friends,” he says.

“As am I,” she tells him, “someday you’ll have to teach me how to use this knife.”

“I’d be happy to.”

She smiles brilliantly at him and he returns the gesture.

It feels right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's making friends. It'd be such a shame if something was gonna happen and, you know, test that. Side note this chapter was slightly delayed because I needed to make up a fighting style for Kaze that went with the clues we were given in the show but worked for a weaponless fight because someone cannot control their fire yet completely.
> 
> But on a more serious note I do want to be very clear that if you leave reviews on this fic that insult me for this story not being a different pairing, I will delete them. It should be clear from the tagging that this story is for the pairing of Pym and Lancelot. So if you are looking for a different pairing for either of them, I would suggest you look in the tags for those pairings and send those authors some love.
> 
> For everyone else, feedback is always loved. I value constructive criticism, emojis, general flailing etc. I know it's scary to write comments sometimes so I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you telling me your thoughts on my work. Thank you for giving me comments/kudos/tumblr messages, they are so appreciated. Onwards!


	35. Ash: Part 35

Nerves come on as the landscape shifts.

She sees the way that the trees start to become sparse, spaced apart. A fine mist starts to appear, reaching for them like fingers. The light changes as well, instead of growing brighter as the trees thin it starts to grow fainter. It’s like walking into some kind of fog. Everything that pushes from the ground starts to change as well, it tilts and twists as though trying to strain from the direction that they’re going. As if running from some great beast that will swallow them if they continue forward. Pym glances at the wagon of children. Even Squirrel seems nervous. Bors looks close to tears.

“I don’t like this,” Bors says.

“I don’t either,” Pym agrees, “but maybe it’s meant to be that way, to scare off our enemies.”

Bors doesn’t necessarily seem comforted by this but Squirrel nods as though it makes sense. Pym can only hope that it does. Some of the horses start to make noise and become skittish. Pym stops her horse and falls back a bit until Goliath appears though the mist. Goliath seems calm but Lancelot’s posture is tense. He’s one of them but has also been an enemy. She imagines his mind is working along the same lines. When he looks at her, he gives her a curious but grateful look.

“I don’t like this,” she admits to him.

“I agree,” he says, “it should be better ahead.”

“Should be?”

“Things like this are to protect something. Inside it’s never the same,” he glances at her horse, “he seems to be doing alright.”

“He is,” she says, “Goliath seems fine,” she smirks, “I suppose this isn’t as terrifying as Fey Fire.”

Lancelot smiles and shakes his head in agreement. The mist starts to grow even thicker and she hears the command given to stop. It’s difficult to see anything that isn’t close. She hears a horse moving and for a moment, she’s worried that they’ve been found. That even if they cannot see, someone else might be able to. But it’s Arthur who comes out of the mist and visibly relaxes at the sight of the two of them.

“Oh good, you’re together,” he says, “this is how the path is supposed to be, but it’s not going well. We’re going to need some help getting through it.”

“I can track whoever leads,” Lancelot says.

“Nimue and Morgana will go ahead,” he says. Lancelot nods, “Pym can you link some of the horses together? We can’t link everyone but it might help with a few.”

“Yes,” she touches the neck of the horse she’s riding, “this one’s good at following Goliath.”

Arthur nods.

  
“You should take him,” Lancelot says, “Pym should come with me on Goliath and mark the way.”

“Is he ready?” She asks. Lancelot nods.

Pym decides that trusting him is the best move here. They dismount and Lancelot helps her find the others in the fog. Arthur helps pair people off and hands Pym cut coils of ropes. Despite everyone staying still, Guinevere joins them.

“Pym’s going to ride with Lancelot, I’m going in the back,” Arthur says. She surveys the group and nods.

“I’ll join you,” she says.

Pym opens her mouth to say that she’ll tether their horses but Guinevere has already moved back. She supposes that it’s easier for her to be in the fog. After all, navigating that with no visible end in sight is part of being on a ship. Still she’s glad they both will have each other to watch their backs.

She mounts Goliath and scoots backwards in the saddle, giving Lancelot as much room as she can to get on. Though she’s started to become accustom to being the one in control of the horse, she’s also very familiar with riding behind someone. Of course Nimue is much closer to her height, Lancelot towers over her. But it doesn’t truly matter, she supposes. Even if she could see around him, it’s not as if there’s anything to see.

“Hold on,” He says, “they’re moving fast.”

Pym wraps her arms around him and thanks the gods is cloak isn’t as rough as some of the things she’s seen him wear. She focuses on keeping all the knots tight. He and Goliath tense at the same time and then move forward. However good she thought she was becoming or Nimue was, there’s a stark difference between what they can do and what someone who has spent his entire life riding constantly does. Goliath trust him, but Pym also realizes that there are a hundred tiny weight shifts that leave no doubt about where Lancelot wants him to go.

“Here,” Lancelot says and Pym throws one of the ropes, snapping a knot around the tree without Goliath needing to stop. They repeat a dozen times at Lancelot’s command until she just has one last length of rope left, “throw the last,” he says.

She doesn’t ask now he knows, she just throws the last and knots it off. The soupy fog seems to have gotten even worse and then Goliath stops abruptly. Pym grips Lancelot tighter and looks around but she can see nothing. Even if she doesn’t go to the isle, she can’t imagine leaving anyone here. Let alone anyone small or young. If she listens past the sound of her own racing heart or Goliath and Lancelot’s breathing, she can hear something. But it takes her mind a moment to recognize what it is.

She’s off Goliath and walking towards the sound. The rocks under her feet are smooth and round. They don’t make it any easier than the fog. But she picks her way forward, following the sound. Water laps at the rocks but it’s very little. She sees it curve around the stones and then pull back with the movement of the water.

And just beyond where the water is, she sees the ice.

She nearly crashes into Nimue as she comes to the edge. She’s standing looking out at it and Pym stares ahead. She cannot see very far. But the ice is unexpected. She has no idea if it will hold anyone’s weight, if there’s another plan to get them across. Just that there was no mention of ice. Ice or fog or any of this.

“This feels wrong,” she says.

“It’s not,” Morgana tells her, “what does it feel like?”

“Death.”

Lancelot answers calmly, looking ahead. Goliath follows without him needing to hold the reins. In his hand is one of the stones from the beach. He turns it over in his palm, as though he’s trying to memorize the sides through his skin. She notices he’s shifted his weight to accommodate the unstable terrain. He moves across it almost naturally.

“Across the lake is the isle,” Morgana says, “the Fey will be safe there.”

“They’ll be dead,” Lancelot says.

“No,” Morgana replies, “they’ll live, but removed from this land and its threats,” she gives him a hard look, “safe.”

“If this is anything like dying you have to tell them,” Pym says, her heart jumping, “we were told we were going to an isle in the middle of a lake. No-one said anything about death.”

“You heard her, it’s not dying,” Nimue says, “it’s just removed.”

“That’s what dying is!”

Pym turns from the ice and looks back. She can hear people have started to arrive and she wants to shout at them to turn around. They’ll find another place. Some other way. But this isn’t the salvation they’ve been hoping for. Nothing good can come from making their way across this place, it can only be sad. Lancelot rests a hand on her shoulder and she looks up at him.

“They need to get here safely,” he says, “then decide.”

Pym nods, she knows he’s right but it’s not what she wishes to do. His hand rests on her shoulder as they arrive with quiet, confused conversation. She waits until she hears Arthur and Guinevere arrive before breathing out in relief. They’ve made it here safely. That is one good thing. Morgana hears them too and she relaxes. Pym listens for the sound of pattering footsteps and looks to see Squirrel running to them.

“That was terrible,” he says, “I wouldn’t want to cross that again like that. Next time I’ll ride with you.”

Morgana touches Nimue’s hand and Nimue nods. Vines creep up her skin as Morgana closes her eyes and whispers something. The fog rolls back like a living thing, leaving only a light mist in it’s wake. It appears the way they came, taking all the visibility with it. Pym thinks this is like Morgana pulling back her veil. But on a much larger scale. She turns from the confused faces to see that the ice continues to stretch out. Just through the mists, she can see a landmass. As they roll back it continues to sharpen, looking deceptively close. She can see trees and greenery. Houses. Even a dock with several small boats.

“Across this lake is our new home,” Nimue says, “our safe haven. Welcome to Avalon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always your feedback is very much appreciated. Your comments/kudos/tumblr messages keep me so focused on this story and inspire me to update as quickly as I do. Please let me know your thoughts and I'll see you in the next chapter!


	36. Ash: Part 36

Tristain opens her eyes, looks at the stones and immediately turns several shades paler.

It’s all the confirmation he needs to trust the memory he had when he first caught her scent. He’s been on this beach before. Or one very similar. The fog, the rocks, all of it is something he half remembers. She raises her eyes and narrows them at him. He’s sure she would have things to say, but after what’s transpiring the last few times, she’s gagged. At the moment he doesn’t have any desire to take the gag off. Instead he walks back out of the tent and to where Pym is sitting with Squirrel. She has a rock in her hand and he has the strangest desire to take it. As though something as simple as holding a rock will tie her to this place. The sooner they leave this place the better.

“Tristain recognized the beach,” he says, “I half remember it. We’ve been here or somewhere like it before.”

“I thought you couldn’t remember anything from before,” Squirrel says.

“Her scent helped,” he says.

“I think she smells like lies,” Squirrel remarks, “and disappointment.”

“Quiet,” Pym says and folds her arms, “is Avalon where the Ash Folk were?”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t think so,” he says, “the boat journey was longer,” he looks around, “but I think this place is like the beach where the Ash Folk came from,” he explains, “we could navigate it.”

Pym lets out a shaky breath and tightens her arms around herself. He doesn’t blame her for the way she’s feeling, he feels it himself. Some small part of him is also grateful that the fear isn’t directed at him. But that’s not the bigger issue. He looks back at the isle and tries not to shudder. This place makes him feel the kind of humility that he saw the Paladins claim to feel when they went into Churches. There should be nothing holy about this place, it’s completely absent of His Grace, and yet he feels something terrifying and old here. Something that makes them all profoundly insignificant.

“Nimue has to tell them,” Pym says, “no-one can just walk off to their deaths or whatever this is without knowing what they’re choosing,” she looks at him, “don’t let Squirrel out of your sight,” she orders and walks off.

Squirrel rolls his eyes and looks out at the ice. Lancelot has spent his entire life in service of the next world. Death had never seemed peaceful. That was not the way of a Paladin. The most you could hope for was to stay alive long enough to receive the Sacrament, that your Brothers would pray for you to go to His Kingdom quickly. The Hellfire was one thing but this cool and mist and an isle is nothing like he would have imagined the next life. Not even if he would up going to a different place.

“If this is the next world, do you wish to go?” He asks Squirrel, “if it means seeing your father again?” Squirrel opens his mouth and he shakes his head, “think for a moment.”

“I don’t need to think,” Squirrel says, “my father didn’t die so that I could join him. He wanted me to live.”

  
The words are surprisingly wise, though Lancelot doesn’t know why that’s surprising at all. Courage, recklessness and wisdom seem to be three things that Squirrel has far beyond his years. The boy looks down at his feet and then back at the isle.

“I don’t see anyone there,” he says.

“I don’t either,” Lancelot replies.

“Do you think your parents are there?” Squirrel asks.

The question catches Lancelot off guard. His parents are not thoughts that he allows to come to the top of his head. Not unless he’s praying. They save souls, but his prayers have always included them. The quiet prayers he says far from the other Paladins, the ones that no-one but Goliath hears. He’s never trusted God to Save them, never thought his prayers were enough to save a life of sinful ways. But that has never stopped him from doing it.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Hey, Bors, do you want to go there if your parents are there?” Squirrel asks.

The shadow of a boy who Lancelot is aware keeps looking at him creeps up to them. He’s still much more cautious, there’s still fear in his eyes. But when he looks at the isle his eyes fill with tears. Squirrel puts an arm around his shoulder as Bors sniffles loudly.

“They said I should be brave,” he says, “I want to tell them I’m sorry I’m not.”

“You’re brave,” Squirrel argues.

“It’s alright to not be,” Lancelot says. They both turn to look at him, “I wasn’t brave as a boy,” he says.

“Do you want to see your parents again?” Bors asks.

“No,” Lancelot says quickly, “though mine have a reason to be disappointed, yours do not.”

“I’m not brave,” Bors repeats.

  
“You’re alive,” Lancelot tells him, “bravery will follow.”

Bors considers this for a moment and then wipes his cheeks. It’s useless but he does it anyway and then shakes his head.

“I don’t want to go there,” he says, “not if it means not living.”

Lancelot nods at the boy and looks back out across the ice. He smells Gawain’s summer scent as he approaches. There’s no earth for him to come out of, he skirts the stones as best he can. Lancelot is surprised to see brown at his feet, as though being in this place is causing him to rot. Though there is some of the smell of this place on him, there always has been. He is the one who has died among them. He has Arthur with him. The two look at the boys and then at him. 

“Nimue is going to address everyone,” Arthur says and hesitates like he wishes to say something more.

“Brother, there is no shame in passing on,” Gawain says, “in knowing peace—“

“I’m not going,” Lancelot cuts in, “Percival and Bors aren’t either. They recognize the sacrifice their parents made was not to have them join them in the beyond,” he looks at Arthur. “We’ll stay.”

“Oh thank God,” Arthur says, looking visibly relieved. Gawain smiles, “I didn’t want to say anything but I’m glad to hear that.”

“Pym’s staying too,” Squirrel points out. Lancelot nods.

“I thought as much” Arthur says, “do you know who else?”

There’s something about the way he says it that digs into Lancelot, though he isn’t sure why. Perhaps she and Arthur discussed it before, though that also seems to annoy him. Or maybe it’s in the notion that a fully trained fighter is somehow more useful than a half trained healer. He can see the logic in that train of thought but it’s incorrect. Arthur gives him a curious look and Gawain almost looks as though he’s about to smile.

“Did I say something wrong?” Arthur asks.

“We had assumed Pym was staying because she’s made her loyalty to the Red Spear clear,” Gawain says, “we are glad to know her mind hasn’t changed.”

“She’s loyal,” Lancelot says.

“I know,” Gawain replies.

Arthur looks panicked for a moment and Lancelot forces himself to ease his expression. He must have miscalculated how he was looking at Arthur. Arthur shakes his head and looks at Gawain, some odd look passing between the two of them before he smiles at all of them.

“We’re glad to hear you and Pym are staying. Anyone else who wants to is welcome,” he says, “we’ll figure out a way to protect whoever we can.”

“Are you staying?” Lancelot asks Gawain.

“Yes,” he says, “I cannot cross freely,” he explains, “I am something beyond this,” he looks over, “people are gathering. You should go. I will get Tristain. All Fey need to listen.”

Lancelot nods and walks to where everyone is gathering. Nimue is standing with Merlin, Morgana and Pym. But Pym is removed from them. Even just in the distance she stands. But also in the anger on her face and the vibrancy that pours from her. It’s like living and the dead are standing together, separated by nothing more than a line in the stones. He looks at Tristain who is still pale and angry, but also afraid for the first time. Nimue steps up and looks at her people.

“The word we are in is no longer a friend to us,” she says, “it dies around us. Because of us. Now it belongs to mankind. This is the way of things and nothing we do will change it,” she looks over her shoulder, “I offer you a new life, removed from this world. We will not be dead, but we will not be as we are. We will be something new. We will be safe. Give our children a chance to grow. Should you desire to return, you may return as you are. But Avalon will always be safe and it will always welcome you home.”

A quiet murmuring breaks out among the Fey. Lancelot puts a hand on Squirrel to keep him from shouting some kind of question. The quieter he is, the easier time they will have staying where they are. The Fey murmur among themselves in confusion before Pym sees it and walks past Nimue to where Morgana is standing. She gives her a sharp look and Morgana glares back before stepping forward.

“The isle of Avalon is my home,” Morgana says, “it is a place that is between this world and the next. It can be your home. Should you choose it. Men are afraid, they dare not come here. So you will be safe."

“We will give you until nightfall tomorrow to make your choices. The mists will keep us safe.”

Pym seems to flounder for a moment, realizing the discussion seems over.

“I’m not going with you,” she says. Nimue turns, “this place belongs to the world of men but that doesn’t mean all men hate us,” she says, “I’m staying with the Red Spear,” she turns, “will you let the others stay?”

Guinevere only looks momentarily horrified before her expression instantly changes. Lancelot isn’t surprised at how quickly it does, he’s been surrounded by people who are truly born to leadership. There are just precious few here. But when she looks at Pym and at the other Fey, there’s nothing but calm assurance on her face. That and the usual amount of anger.

“I will,” she says, “those who stay will have a place with me and my protection.” 

“Those are your choices,” Pym says and walks over to the Red Spear, “Pass into the Twilight now or stay in the Dawn a while longer.”

The group waits for a rebuttal but there is none. They slowly start to disperse though Guinevere puts a hand on Pym’s shoulder and steers her away. Unwilling to see history repeat itself, Lancelot follows. After a moment Arthur does as well.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Guinevere demands, “I’m not after a court.”

“I thought you were—“ Pym cuts herself off as she looks at Arthur and Lancelot, “you need one if you’re going to take over from Cumber.”

“Not of half starved Fey,” she hisses.

“Half starved Fey and several warriors who have saved your hide,” Kaze reminds her. Pym relaxes visibly and Lancelot fights the urge to do so as well, “they give you an advantage and a claim.”

“I don’t need a claim,” Guinevere argues.

“And why’s that?” Kaze asks.

Guinevere glares at her but Kaze is thoroughly unimpressed and merely folds her arms, waiting for an explanation. She keeps her eyes locked with Guinevere except for one moment when she purposefully looks at the few Fey who seem to be moving slightly closer, as if to remind Guinevere what she’s agreed to. Lancelot shifts his stance and wishes that Pym would move her hand closer to the knife, as Guinevere looks too close to violence for his liking. But Guinevere doesn’t move to strike her, she just meets Kaze’s gaze.

“Cumber’s my father.”

Arthur chokes on nothing but the air and Guinevere shoots him an utterly withering look. Lancelot thinks of what he knows about Cumber, about Eydis and Dagmar. He looks at Guinevere. All the makeup and jewelry is a good distraction but in pushing past it he can see the similarities in the expressions and the set of their eyes. The curve of their noses. She and Eydis have a similar build. Not like Cumber so probably like their mother.

“So the choice is to stay here and help you win a war against your father or pass onto the next world,” Kaze says, “what about those who cannot fight?”

“I can’t fight and I’m staying,” Pym says.

“You’re a healer.”

“Barely,” she replies. Kaze raises her eyebrows, “Lancelot can heal himself, he isn’t credit to my abilities.”

  
“I wouldn’t expect them to fight,” Guinevere speaks up, “but until I’ve won against my father, any safe haven I can offer is meaningless.”

Kaze nods. Lancelot looks at Arthur who still seems stunned at the news that Guinevere is royalty, though he imagines she’s not forthcoming with the information. As the group disperses, he’s not expecting for Nimue to approach them. If she’s angry at Pym’s outburst, it doesn’t show. She looks between them but her eyes settle on him.

“I need to speak to you privately,” she says.

“No,” he replies, “there have been enough surprises today.”

Frustration does show momentarily but she pushes it aside. She squares her shoulder and looks at him.

“After they cross, I need you to melt the ice. So no-one will follow without touching the water.”

“I can,” he says, “where are you going?”

Nimue swallows and for the first time, the mask of a leader breaks and the girl she was shines through. He understands that she hasn’t had the time for the two to become one person. That some part of her is still that child who longs for the world she left behind. But she gives a smile and looks at Pym.

“It’s my destiny to be one with the lake,” she says, “I will guard Avalon and the sword, but I cannot do it as I am now.”

“You aren’t going with them,” Lancelot says.

“No,” Nimue replies, “this is Morgana’s place, she will keep them safe. And I will be here if any should cross the mist. When the lake and I are one, this will be finished. They’ll be safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Avalon is complicated, for lack of a better term. But this is intentional, as none of our POV characters are going (yet) and have decided to fight to live/take their Arthurian places more or less.
> 
> Feedback is love! Please let me know your thoughts and thank you for all the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. They help so much, especially right now when I'm feeling a little down with this slow burn--which I did to myself! I know. But your messages are keeping me focused and pushing through. I'll see you in the next chapter!


	37. Ash: Part 37

Nimue dying is not what Pym was expecting to hear.

She can’t tell if she’s angry or sad or what. She just feels sick to her stomach. She wants to scream or to punch something or to pull out her hair. But she can only pace a section of the beach. Nimue doesn’t want the others to know. Pym doesn’t know who knows. Or what she is supposed to do with that information. Does she try to stop her? Beg her? Help her to her death? Nimue was the person that she would always go to when it came to speaking about things like this. Pym knew that she was going to become less of a option in the imminent future, but she wasn’t going to become whatever she’s thinking about becoming.

She senses Lancelot behind her. He doesn’t say anything, he seems to know that there’s nothing he can say. Pym thinks about asking him to get someone else, but she realizes there’s no-one else she wants. All any of them know of death is on the battlefield. She doesn’t know that anyone understands someone they were best friends with becoming something like what Nimue is about to become. She’s choosing it and Pym doesn’t know how she’s supposed to feel. Or even how she does feel. It’s just a mess of a storm inside her, like all her emotions are turning themselves inside out.

“What’s hellfire supposed to feel like?” She asks.

“Unending pain,” he says, “beyond human understanding,” he hesitates, “we could save them from it by praying.”

“Nimue doesn’t want prayers.”

“She isn’t dying,” he says. Pym scoffs, “she’s becoming like Morgana and Gawain.”

“That makes it so much better,” Pym scoffs.

Lancelot doesn’t contradict her or offer an alternative point of view. Pym is glad he at least seems to realize now is not the time for optimism. She doesn’t want it. Even if it was from someone who was good at providing it. She’s always been the one who looked on the bright side but she can see how little that does. It didn’t save Dof, or her parents or anyone. It won’t save Nimue. The familiar guilt that she thought she had put away churns back to life nauseatingly.

“You could not melt the ice,” she says.

“I could,” Lancelot agrees.

Pym looks over at him sharply and he meets her eyes unflinchingly. There’s no humor in them like there usually is when people claim to listen to her. He wouldn’t, if she asked. She looks back at the isle and thinks Nimue would probably find another way to do it. This is the easiest way. The most efficient way. But some horribly selfish part of her doesn’t want Fey Fire tied to Nimue’s death. No matter how much easier things would be. She swallows tightly and fights the urge to turn from the isle, she doesn’t think she can bear to look behind her at the people she’s going to stay with. Or if she’ll ever be able to look at the water again.

“She’ll just find another way,” she sighs, “before you all came she was trying to leave. And look where we are now.”

It’s anger and hurt that makes her words cruel, she knows that. But she can’t stop herself. The idea that everything has led to this, to Nimue sacrificing herself, it makes her sick. This cannot be what destiny intended. No matter that this is what High Summoners are supposed to be willing to do. Nimue is not supposed to do it, not so soon. Not like this. She’s supposed to have a life. A family. Years ahed of her. All of the Summoners have time and a life, they don’t go within the year of being chosen. She can’t remember ever hearing of someone so young sacrificing themselves like this.

“Do you have friends?” She asks, “besides Goliath and us.”

“None who still live,” he says.

“Did you know they were going to die?”

“Yes,” she looks over at him, “everyone was as good as dead when the Paladins came. The few Paladins I was friends with died doing God’s work,” she cringes, “it’s been Goliath and I for some time.”

“Did the pain ever go away?”

She doesn’t mean to ask the question. Not to someone who seems to have pain tangled together with anything resembling comfort or pleasure. She doesn’t want to hear that it doesn’t go away, that you become the pain. If that’s her fate, she doesn’t want to know. She’s not ready to give up her last shred of hope.

“I used to think not,” he says, “now, I think there are others ways to live.”

“You don’t need to lie to make me feel better.”  
  
“I’m not lying.”

Pym looks away. She crosses her arms against the sudden chill that goes down her spine. It’s the first time that she’s felt cold physically. Which seems foolish considering the amount of ice. Maybe it’s the acceptance that this is a place she doesn’t belong. Somewhere she doesn’t want to be. It seems so stupid that she thought she would belong here. That she hoped she would. All she wants to do is run away. But she couldn’t. She can’t. She can just stand there and stare at the isle and wish that things were different. She doesn’t know how she is standing here willingly choosing a war.

It’s exhausting.

She knows her focus has been on going forward, on continuing that way. Not stopping, not resting. The shiver comes again. The isle suddenly seems more tempting. If only as a place to rest. Before going back to war and adventures with people her parents wouldn’t want her spending time with. She pushes against the desire but it wraps her close, like she’s breathing in the mist. She could see her parents and Nimue again. After she becomes whatever she’s going to be.

“Pym.”

She finds herself gently turned around, away from the isle. Lancelot’s face is almost comically concerned, like when he woke her up from the nightmare. She scrambles for sympathy towards him, he’s trying but this is wildly out of his abilities. She thinks that she should just look at the isle for a little longer, it will make her feel better. But when she goes to turn he grips her shoulder. It’s not hard but she knows she can’t turn. She isn’t strong enough. Like usual.

Warmth pricks through the thoughts.

She looks down to see that Lancelot has his fist between them. It’s not clenched so much as it’s gently curled. She can see the flash of green underneath but he keeps it underneath his cupped palm. Pym shivers again and realizes her jaw hurts. When she relaxes it, her teeth start to chatter. She looks around and realizes that even if the miserable thoughts are still there, the cold fog isn’t.

“I don’t know what just happened,” she admits, realizing for the first time she’s a lot closer to the ice than she remembers being when she walked onto the beach, “I didn’t realize I was so cold,” she closes her eyes and lets the fire warm her and bring the feeling back into her limbs, “are you ever cold?” She asks.

“No,” he says, the concern not leaving his face, “you got lost in your thoughts.”

“I know,” she says, “I keep forgetting how much has happened—“ she feels her cheeks get warm with embarrassment, “it’s ridiculous—“  
  
“It’s not,” he cuts in, “I remember what it was like to lose my home and my family.”

Thankfully the familiar anger towards him doesn’t come roaring back. It’s just a milder version. She can blame him for what happened and also acknowledge that he has been through the same thing.

“I know,” she says.

She doesn’t need to step closer but she can just savor the warmth that comes from his closed hand. She doesn’t look at it and by all means she should be afraid of it, but if it lets her keep her wits about her and keeps her from the cold, she’s willing to put that fear aside. Amulet or not.

“I knew I wouldn’t see my friends again, I know it’s a difficult thing to go through,” he says.

Pym nods.

“I was afraid.”

The feeling is back in her limbs and she looks up at him curiously. He still looks concerned but now he also looks frustrated. She wonders how on earth he kept his emotions to himself all those years. Maybe he just elected not to speak and to hide his face in the cowl of his robe. She can’t think of any other way he lasted as long as he did with the doubts he confesses to having. His brows draw together and his lips part and close again before he opens them.

“Are you trying to keep up the conversation?” She asks tentatively. His lips clamp shut, “its alright,” she says quickly, “I can’t seem to talk without wanting to scream.”

“You don’t have to talk,” he says, “talking just seems to—be something you do to feel better.”

He doesn’t say it with any cruelty or any judgement. Not like she would have expected from someone like him if she hadn’t gotten to know him. But Lancelot trying to figure it out as if this is a fighting style seems like what he would do. A part of her is touched. Another part wants to cry because however sweet it is, their friendship is a new thing. He doesn’t know her like Nimue does. No-one does. It’s a sobering thought.

“I don’t think anything can make this feel better,” she admits finally, “but thank you for trying.”

He nods as they lapse into silence. The warmer she feels the more her emotions seem to make themselves known. She understands the appeal of the ice and the isle. How very little seems to matter. How a moment of sadness seems like a small price to pay to drift away like that. It makes her shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. She’s been tempted by things before, but never something like that.

“I should speak to her,” she says abruptly, “maybe I can convince her—“

“She’s going,” Lancelot says, “her mind was made.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Pym says, even as she knows he’s right. Lancelot looks at her steadily and doesn’t try to placate her, “I can’t just let her do this.”

  
“You could help her,” he says.

  
“Help her to—to what? To kill herself?”

Outrage must be in her voice because he struggles for the serenity that she usually sees him try to imitate when she yells. He gives up though and nods.

“Help her to pass peacefully,” he says.

Pym hates knowing he’s right. She shakes her head. She’s strong enough for some insane things but not what he’s suggesting. Lancelot looks at her steadily and for a moment Pym feels very much like a young girl again. One whose been caught stealing cookies before supper. He’s barely been around the Fey, he shouldn’t already have the ability to look at her like a disapproving mother.

“I can’t do that,” she insists, “if I went along with every insane plan Nimue ever had we’d have been dead long ago. I’m not going along with the one that will actually kill her.”

“She feels this is her destiny,” he says.

“I don’t care about destiny,” Pym snaps, “she doesn’t deserve this.”

Lancelot doesn’t react to the anger in her tone. Pym knows that taking advice from someone whose specialized in murdering Fey for most of their life isn’t something she should do. Nor should she let Nimue throw herself into the lake like this. Not to keep everyone safe. Not after they spent their lives treating her so terribly.

“Pym—“

“Don’t ‘Pym’ me,” she says, “how do you know what her destiny is? You’ve barely spoken to each other.”

“She has the sword.”

“Merlin has the sword, he can go sacrifice himself,” she says, “let him die for them.”

It’s a horrible thing to say but in the moment she doesn’t care. Lancelot looks at her steadily and Pym wonders how someone can be so inviting and so repelling at the same time. She doesn’t like it. But even in the storm of her emotions she knows this isn’t directed at him. That Nimue’s destiny was always to wind up in this place. All of their destiny seems to be that.

She pushes Lancelot’s hand off her shoulder to go tell Nimue that destiny can wait and it’s suddenly on her forearm. When she goes to push it off there, it’s back on her shoulder. She knows he’s a good fighter, she’s just never had a reason to be on the opposite side of it. Trying to push his hand away is frustrating but it’s something to do. Something that doesn’t make her feel powerless. Even though it should. Maybe it’s just the oddity of a physical interaction that doesn’t involve blood or tending to someone’s wounds. When she tries to turn the other way, his hand slides to her wrist and she finds herself pinned with her back to his chest. He could cut her throat and the fact that he could do it one handed just speaks to his abilities. Instead he pins her hand across her chest and over her shoulder.

“You’ll regret it if you don’t make amends,” he says and there’s something heavy in his voice.

Something that makes her think of Dof.

“Alright,” she snaps and waits a moment, “I can’t go to her with you holding my hand and pinning me to your chest,” she points out.

He releases her and she steps away. There’s a flash of green and she closes her eyes. There’s a warm breeze against her face from his cloak as he turn around. When she opens them, he has his back to her.

“Go,” he says, “I’ll handle this.”

She sighs at the finality in his voice but she knows that he’s right. She needs to find Nimue and speak to her. And make things right.

She’ll have to thank him later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads up that this week is a little bit crazy for me so my updates might be a bit more sporadic than usual but I'll do my best!
> 
> Thank you for all the comments/kudos/tumblr messages, they are so wonderful and I am so lucky to have you all along for the ride. Let me know what you thought and I'll see you in the next chapter!


	38. Ash: Part 38

For as long as he’s cared to remember, Lancelot has felt alone.

It’s odd to see so much of himself spread across these people. He remembers arriving on the shores of an inhospitable place, surrounded by people he felt he didn’t belong with. He remembers what he became. Not the scared, shy boy he barely remembers being. He sees himself spread around these people but perhaps none more than Pym. It’s an unsettling thing. He only allows himself to think about the memory of standing on the shore looking out and wondering where he was supposed to go once he’s put out the flames.

It’s easier.

He’s not foolish enough to equate a bandage with healing, luck with skill. He knows this is a temporary thing and he cannot claim to have control over the flames. But it’s progress. It’s an odd thing to progress slowly and carefully, to do it without Father looking over his shoulder or the flogger being placed into his hand. His back itches and he realizes it’s been hours since he ached for the familiar pain. Traveling through the mists to this place has redirected his thoughts. His back itches and his fingers twitch for the Beads that lay scattered. It’s no matter if the Paladins or the Guard find them now. His fingers miss their familiar weight but though Pym and Squirrel turn from his Prayers, he knows that others won’t be understanding. Not that they should be.

“It is strange to think we will be the last of our kind on these shores,” Gawain says. Lancelot looks at him, “but I suppose you always intended to be one of the last.”

There’s something fainter about Gawain’s voice, something that reminds him eerily of how he had been before his death. Not broken in any way that mattered but certainly drained. Hurt. The green vines that seem to be him now are tinted brown, like they are rotting. It started at his feet but now it is almost at his waist. It’s as though death calls for people here. Him, Pym—most of the Fey. 

“I don’t feel it,” he says. Gawain looks at him, “this place doesn’t affect me like you.”

“You’re of these people, you’re not of this land,” Gawain says, “there were rumors that the Ash Folk were no longer connected to any land since they left these shores,” he sighs in regret, “but I do not know if that’s true. So much of the Ash Folk is rumor.”

“I understand,” Lancelot says.

Gawain nods.

Lancelot hesitates for a moment before finding the words.

“Did it hurt to become what you are?”

Gawain considers for a moment and Lancelot hopes the answer is not what he dreads it to be. A look of pain passes over his features, but it’s gone so quickly Lancelot wonders if he imagined it. A dreamy smile comes over Gawain’s face instead.

“I can’t remember,” he says, “it didn’t hurt as badly as what came before,” Lancelot winces, “is that what the did to you?” Gawain asks.

There’s a flash like a thunderclap in his head. Things that he’s pushed so far out of his mind they don’t even feel like his memories anymore. Or so he tells himself. He remembers when Brother Salt had cruel eyes, ones that shined with delight at doing the Lord’s work. He remembers Father’s hand on his shoulder, the promise of his measure being taken. Then the promise of being sharpened like a sword, the suffering cleansing him from weakness and sin. Putting him on the Path.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lancelot says quickly, his thumb running over his nails. All still there.

Gawain looks at him quietly for a moment but offers no absolution. Instead there’s just a flicker of understanding, an understanding that comes from a shared experience.

“I am sorry,” Gawain says, “that no Knight came for you.”

“It—“

“It does matter,” he cuts off, “it’s not as black and white as we all wish it was,” he looks at his fingers, “it seems I’ve been in the bath too long.”

“You should go to the woods,” Lancelot says.

“I will see them to the next shore,” Gawain replies.

“There’s time,” he says, “not everyone has made a decision,” Gawain looks out at the isle, “rest,” Lancelot says, “I’ll signal you before it’s time.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have that long,” Gawain says.

Lancelot looks back at the beach. More Fey have started to move towards the ice. Some just subtly and some are actually moving towards it. His heart gives a sick lurch and he looks quickly for Squirrel among them. He finds him with Kaze. She’s herding the little ones into a tent. She glances at him and nods. His heart relaxes just enough to let him think straight. The adrenaline coursing through him with these non fighters is a new and unpleasant experience.

“Stop them,” he says to Gawain, “I’ll gather firewood.”

“Do we need it?” He asks.

“Yes,” Lancelot says, “fire seemed to help. Stop them from going onto the ice.”

Gawain’s dreamy look seems to fall away at the tone in his voice. Lancelot goes towards the outskirts of the woods. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Arthur break away and come towards him. His eyes are clear and he looks concerned but determined. It’s possible that the place doesn’t have the same effect on man-bloods.

“We need firewood,” he says, “the heat seems to help.”  
  
Arthur nods and then looks confused.

“I thought you didn’t need wood for the—“ he nods towards Lancelot’s hands.

His side aches with a phantom pain.

“I can’t control it enough to make something like that,” he says.

“Yet.”

He looks over at Arthur sharply. Arthur gives him an offhanded shrug.

“Morgana used to make me say that anytime I would talk about not being able to do something,” he says. He clears his throat, “you want to take that side?”

“We should stick together,” Lancelot says, ‘we won’t get far with the mists.”

Arthur nods and they set about collecting as much wood as they can. It’s dry and damp and not connected to the living forest. Though Lancelot isn’t even sure if this place could be considered a living thing. Not this close to that other place. They gather armfuls of firewood and bring them back to the camp. He looks over to see Arthur expertly start one and turns back to his own work. It’s not the first time he has made fire with damp wood. They set the fires and Gawain starts to direct people towards them. Arthur follows. Lancelot goes into the tent where Kaze is sitting with her arms folded and a pile of little ones at her feet. One gasps when he comes inside.

“I only peeked a little!”

Kaze looks at him with a raised eyebrow. Lancelot shakes his head, he’ll have to explain his status as a boogey man to her later.

“We have fires outside,” he says, “they help.”

“If they don’t fix it, they’re better in here,” she says. 

Lancelot wishes he didn’t agree. There’s no promise that this will work for everyone. Pym dismissed her healer abilities in the face of his healing, but he knows that fire won’t be enough for everyone. Not everyone has the will she does. It’s better if the children don’t see the consequences of that. He nods instead to her and steps out. The tent hits something behind him and he turns around to see Squirrel standing.

“I want to help,” he says. Lancelot hesitates, “besides you’re not supposed to let me out of your sight. Remember?”

“Help me gather wood,” he says. 

“Why don’t you just make fire without it?”

Lancelot feels the annoyance at the question and, at the same time, realizes it’s one that he’ll be hearing until he learns. Squirrel doesn’t go more than an arm’s length from him, mainly because when he tries to Lancelot pulls him back. He loads Squirrel up with enough sticks that the boy has to concentrate on breathing and carrying the weight, which is a pleasant change from the barrage of questions.

“Too heavy?”

“Never,” Squirrel says stubbornly, “I walked behind Goliath the whole night.”

“Come.”

He lets Squirrel back to the camp and they make a fire for the little ones and Kaze. Squirrel doesn’t give him a chance to leave him behind as they head to where Tristain is still tied up. Whatever fear she felt at the stones seems to have gone away. When she sees the sticks, she rolls her eyes and makes a scoff that carries through the gag. Before he can reconsider, Lancelot pulls down the gag. 

“Do you want to go to the isle?”

“Like I told your bastard Queen, I would rather burn in Hell,” she spits.

Lancelot is surprised they’ve asked her without telling him before he remembers that they don’t trust him. Or most of them don’t. He nods and piles the sticks. Tristain watches, unimpressed, as he starts a fire. Lancelot straightens up and looks down at her.

“Are you curious what will happen after the others leave?”

“No,” she snaps, “I am on the Path. The Heavenly Father will guide me.”

She says it with conviction and devotion, the way the most faithful Paladins did. Lancelot searches for any sign of the doubt he felt, or the absence. But there is none he can see. She believes it blindly. Maybe she felt it. Maybe it was truly him all along. He doesn’t know. But he nods and reaches for the gag as she lifts her head up defiantly.

“You will Burn,” she says, “and your brothers will enjoy the sight of it,” she smirks, “that place can’t save you.”

“I’m not going,” he says.

The surprise at least shuts her up as he pulls the gag back up. He guides Squirrel out first and looks at Tristain. Her eyes narrow at the sight of the young one. There’s no hesitation in the venomous look. It’s unsettling to see someone who looks like him, it’s worse to see them feeling the things he always longed to feel. Believing as he tried to believe. He prefers the cold and mist outside. Squirrel glances at the lake but turns when Lancelot comes up behind him.

“Have you changed your mind?” He asks.

“No,” Squirrel says.

“Good,” Lancelot hesitates for a moment, “come,” he leads Squirrel away from the others.

“Do we need more wood?”

“No,” he says.

He can’t understand what he’s doing, if this is some kind of egregious overstep. But he knows that everyone is focused on important things. Pym will try to convince Nimue, but he cannot fathom letting the boy witness more death without being prepared. Squirrel looks at him curiously and Lancelot fumbles where to start.

“Your friend Nimue is the Queen,” he says. Squirrel nods, “sometimes good rulers need to make sacrifices for their people.”

“She did that,” Squirrel says, “I’m glad it didn’t stick.”

Lancelot feels his nerve falter but he pushes on.

“She needs to make a different sacrifice to keep your kind safe,” he says. Squirrel frowns, “so that Avalon is protected.”

Squirrel’s frown deepens, confusion adding weight to his young face.

“I don’t understand.”

“She’s going to become like what Gawain is,” Lancelot says.

“Oh, that’s fine. I’m not afraid of Gawain,” Squirrel says confidently, but Lancelot can see the doubt and fear warring on his face.

“It’s not that simple,” Lancelot says, “she’s going to become one with the water.”

“So I won’t see her again?”

“I don’t know,” Lancelot admits. The emotions warp into something like anger.

“If you don’t know, why would you say that?” Squirrel demands, “I’m going to talk to her—“ Lancelot stops him with a hand, “don’t stop me!” Squirrel yells with as much force as he can, “she’s not going to die. You don’t know that. You’re just a Squire. You don’t know our ways!”

“Percival—“

“Don’t call me that!” He bellows and swings at him.

Lancelot catches the boy against his chest as he tries to strike him before the yelling turns into loud, hiccuping sobs. The fists turn into a death grip on his tunic. It’s easy to stop someone from hurting him, far easier than it is to deal with the boy sobbing into his stomach. Lancelot imagines it was only a matter of time before it happened, but he realizes he’s ill prepared. He doesn’t know how to help this part of Squirrel. He steadies his shoulders and that just seems to make Squirrel cling to him harder.

Lancelot doesn’t remember ever properly embracing someone, though he’s sure he must have at some point in his life.

But he’s not a fool so he holds Squirrel around his shoulders and lets him weep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Please let me know your thoughts and I will see you in the next chapter!


	39. Ash: Part 39

She pulls the comb through Nimue’s hair with practiced strokes.

She had always believed that Nimue would be the one who would survive. Who would prepare her body when she passed into the twilight. It never occurred to her that she would go first. When she had come into the tent and seen the look on Nimue’s face, the arguments she had hastily thought of seemed to die on her tongue. Now as she helps her, they start to resurface.

“We could find another way,” she says.

“The Hidden disagree,” Nimue says, “this is what I was meant to do.”

“I thought I was meant to live in the village,” Pym says, “I was wrong about that, maybe the Hidden are wrong about you,” Nimue gives her an incredulous look, “I’m just saying you deserve a life. A long, long, happy one.”

A shadow flickers across Nimue’s face. It’s rare to see her truly afraid but something close to it shows.

“Merlin lived a long, long life,” she says, “I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

Pym realizes her mistake. It’s a very unsettling thing to be misunderstood by someone who knew her every thought and intention. She realizes that for all she hoped the gap between them would get smaller, it could just as easily get wider. But the pain of that would be better than the pain of it not going either way. Of their friendship being broken and frozen like it is now seemingly destined to be. It makes her throat tighten. But asking Nimue if she and their friendship matter at all seems like a childish thing to do, so she focuses on Nimue’s hair instead. Their friendship did matter, she can do nothing but she can be here for her friend.

“Are you afraid?” She asks.

“Not anymore,” Nimue says, “I was when I was on that bridge, when I thought I was going to die,” she exhales and Pym tries not to see bubbles where there are none, “then I realized that everything was leading to where we are now,” she looks back at her, “this is about them.”

The tone her voice takes is something close to how Gawain speaks. As though they have passed along from this world already. It’s selfless and it’s terrifying. And Pym knows that she should be grateful, that their sacrifice allows her to stay alive. But it scares her. She would rather be surrounded by the loud Raiders or Arthur’s ability to charm even a tree. She’d rather be around Lancelot who seems just as caught up and confused when it comes to being grateful to the dead and not being sure it’s time to join them.

“Your mother would be proud of you,” she says.

“I thought I saw her,” Nimue confesses, “in the water. I thought I heard her. I think it was just the Hidden being kind.”

“Perhaps it was both,” Pym says.

Nimue’s hair shines as she sets the comb down and starts to braid. She knows how to do Nimue’s preferred style. Though she’s always preferred less elaborate braids on herself. But she’s not the High Summoner. So less elaborate braids are befitting. She works the few flowers that have been gathered into the plaits and hides others in the few braids she’s hidden throughout the rest of her hair. She touches Nimue’s shoulder and tries to smile. 

  
“I’m done,” she says.

“Thank you,” Nimue tells her, embracing her. Pym breathes in the scent of her oldest friend and tries to commit to to memory, “here, I want you to have these,” Nimue says, going over to her riding cloak and coming back with her prayer beads in her hands.

Pym’s mouth goes dry.

Nimue’s beads are far more elaborate, made of labradorite, amethyst and sandalwood. Even after the many years they’ve been in her family, they still give off the scent of the wood. They belong to the next High Summoner. Someone else is supposed to have them. Even though Nimue will never have children or pass them to another Summoner. She guards the Sword now.

“I can’t—“ Pym starts.

“Yes,” Nimue cuts in, “you’re going to be one of the last of us here. And you’re my best friend. These belong with you,” her smile softens, “I know yours got lost.”

Pym tries to ignore the knot in her stomach and nods, extending her wrist to let Nimue wrap the loop around it several times. Nimue bends and presses her lips against Pym’s hand and the pendant. She looks up at her and in another time an argument would have started. But now Nimue just looks at her.

“You’ll be a great healer one day,” she says.

  
“I don’t want to be great,” Pym says, “I’m from the village—I didn’t even want to be a healer. I would be fine being alright at something.”

The words spill out like a confession and the urge to rip the beads off of her wrist is overwhelming. So she shoves her other hand into her pocket and grips the other beads in there. She half expects one of the prayer beads to start to smoke, as if both religions will burst into flames at the mere proximity to one another. Or with being on her skin. But nothing so dramatic happens. Nothing happens at all. Except that she feels marginally better knowing that she can distract her fingers with the beads in her hand instead of with breaking the others on her wrist.

“That’s what’s always made you special,” Nimue says, “you’re a girl from the village, but you have always seen things differently. We wouldn’t be friends otherwise.”

“That doesn’t make me special,” Pym argues, “it just makes me—not as foolish.”

“It makes you special,” Nimue says. She guides Pym’s hand up from her pocket and looks at the broken beads and the hateful cross. But there’s no anger on her face when she looks at it. Just a shadow that passes quickly, “no-one else would have seen what you did. Not with me, not with him.”

“That’s not true,” Pym says, “Squirrel—“

“Gullayad wouldn’t have let him near me, if he hadn’t seen us together,” Nimue counters, “you can be ordinary and extraordinary at the same time. It doesn’t have to be one or the other.”

Pym fights the urge to argue and settles for rolling her eyes.

  
“Says the most extraordinary one of us,” she says.

Nimue doesn’t argue. Maybe that is the biggest change. She’s taken the burden of leadership, everything that it entails. She doesn’t look as though she wants to run away, she looks as if she wants to do what she knows she must. She looks like the High Summoner, as well as their Queen. She squeezes both of Pym’s hands as though she can commit the feeling of their flesh to her memory. Then she drops both and steps back.

“Is there anything I can do to make tonight better?” Pym asks.

Nimue straightens up and looks at her. There’s something in her eyes. Pained but accepting. Something Pym wants to ask about but finds it difficult.

“Rest,” she says, “just rest.”

“Did you—“ Pym cuts herself off with a yawn, anger warring against the sudden weight in her veins.

“I know you,” Nimue says, “you never sleep when you’re upset.”

“You’re going to die, how could I not be upset?”

“Which is why you need at least one night of sleep. Before you don’t for a while,” Pym fights the urge to lay down right there, “this is the last thing I can give you,” she says, “if you read this you will be a great healer.”

She presses a leather book into Pym’s hands. Even in her ordinary hands, she feels the book seem to hum. As if it’s a living thing. Maybe it is. She’s seen it before in the hands of the High Summoners. She’ll never be able to do what Nimue can, but in her arms is the key to doing something. At the moment though, she just wants to hit Nimue over the head with the book and point out that making her sleep was a terrible thing to do. Even if the intention was good. She had planned to spend the night with her like when they were girls but instead she finds herself stumbling onto the hateful beach. Surrounded by Fey and fires and wondering how on earth she’s supposed to keep her feet under her.

She at least manages to stumble away from the ice.

  
Surely there’s something in the book that will tell her how to fix this. She just has to stay awake long enough to figure it out. Staying awake long enough to get somewhere to open the book, to turn the pages, to do any of this seems completely unfathomable. She forces herself to breathe through her nose and focus on taking one step. Putting one food in front of the other. Her own magic seems to sputter as she stumbles, as if even that is going to sleep with Nimue’s siren call. But she doesn’t even have the strength to push aside her own hair.

“Pym.”

She jumps as a hand clasps onto her shoulder and another pushes the hair back from her face. She’s not surprised to see Lancelot. She imagines being cursed or blessed or whatever Nimue has done has wreaked havoc on her scent. His eyes move across her as she tries to get herself used to not moving, after just having gotten used to feeling like she was moving. Lancelot looks her up and down and Pym realizes he’s checking her for injuries.

“I’m supposed to go to sleep,” she says, “I don’t sleep when I’m upset, I have—“ she searches for the word, “too many nightmares. It’s easier to stay awake.” 

Lancelot nods as though it makes perfect sense, even though Pym’s sure that her words have come out completely garbled. He wraps an am around her shoulder and helps her support the weight of the book so her fingers can relax their death grip. She forgets why they shouldn’t when one of his prayer beads hits the ground. She goes to pick it up but he steadies her and does it himself.

“I thought these were lost,” he says.

“I was trying to repair them,” she says, “I can’t find any silk and it didn’t seem right to use Fey magic on them.”

He puts the bead back in her pocket and helps her open her hand so the rest of them tip into his. To her surprise he puts them with the others instead of taking them back or saying any of the things she’s sure that he’s thinking. He moves to take the book and she shakes her head, grasping it as tightly as she can manage.

“I’m supposed to keep it safe,” she says.

“Alright,” he tells her.

She imagines he would understand the importance of a book better than most. He helps her get her arms around it again and guides her up the beach. She stumbles a few times but her weight is always caught easily. Lancelot guides her to a tent and the next thing she realizes she’s being sat down on her bedroll. She brings her knees up to help hold the book as Lancelot crouches in front of her.

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“I don’t think you have a choice,” he says.

She nods because she knows he’s right. There’s nothing to do though. And that is what has always been the problem with being ordinary and extraordinary at the same time. Or at least with being those things around the extraordinary. At the end of the day, they will do what they want. You just have to hope it’s not something you’re against. Or something you don’t want them to do.

She blinks and looks up to see Lancelot lay her head back. Her arms are still tight around the book but Lancelot gently breaks the grip of one to unwind the beads. Pins and needles prick at her fingers and she half hopes that the beads will be tied to sleeping but she finds she doesn’t feel any more awake. Though she keeps the book close when Lancelot goes to move his hands back, she grabs his.

“Rest,” he says, “I’ll be here.”

Pym doesn’t think that should make her feel better, but it does. She doesn’t have the strength to say it. Lancelot rubs his thumb over her knuckles.

Then she can’t fight Nimue’s magic any longer and slips away.


	40. Ash: Part 40

  
“I saw you take Pym from the beach,” Nimue says.

Lancelot nods. He’s not pleased to have been summoned like this, he doesn’t know what Nimue could have to say to him. But he’s here none the less. He knows enough to understand that if the leader summons you, they expect you to arrive. Nimue continues to look at him cooly. She looks nothing like those who have ordered him before, there’s a power in the blooms and silk she wears that he doesn’t understand. But he would be a fool to think she didn’t have it.

“And Squirrel told me you spoke to him about what I am to do.”

He nods again.

“Pym doesn’t sleep when she’s upset,” Nimue says abruptly, “neither of them remember to eat either. You’ll have to see to that.”

He frowns, Nimue doesn’t trust or like him, but she instructs him none the less in what both of them do. He’s noted both things about their behavior. Squirrel also stops talking while Pym speaks more. Squirrel cries more readily and Pym tries to hide her emotional responses. But Nimue isn’t aware of his knowledge. He’s surprised, out of all the people she could be relaying this to, he wouldn’t have expect it to be him.

“Why are you telling me this?” He says, “Gawain—“

“Gawain is beyond all of this,” Nimue cuts in, “he is staying to do what he must, but don’t forget that he has moved beyond this world. You have not,” she looks him in the eye, “I want my friends to be taken care of.”

Lancelot can see her holding back all the things she wishes to say. Things he’s sure he deserves to hear. Asking for help from an enemy isn’t something that comes naturally to anyone, especially not one with burdens such as hers. Trusting her friends with him, that doesn’t seem like something she wants to do. But he can see the selflessness in the act. The two of them will never be friends, he’s not sure if a friendship between them would be possible after the things they have done to each other. But he is friends with Pym and Squirrel. They have chosen to be his companions, to stand by him, in a way that Lancelot isn’t sure anyone has in his entire life.

“You are a child,” Nimue says, though it’s not as cruel as what she could say, “you’re new to our ways. You’ll learn, in time, but I was afraid I was leaving them with someone who wouldn’t know how to take care of them. I still have my doubts.”

“You wanted to see if I would come for Pym,” he says.

“That was a part of it,” she says unapologetically, “I wanted to see if she would go to you as well,” she frowns, “being my friend cost her things, things she says never mattered, but once she was friends with me no-one else wanted to be friends with her. I was contagious to them,” she pushes the frown away, “I wanted to know she had someone who she trusted.”

Lancelot can see her logic but can’t approve of her actions. Her last forced sleep is still fresh in his head. He remembers the aftermath of her kidnapping, the nightmares and jumps that still cling to her. It seems wrong that he knows those things and Nimue does not, but their focus has been on getting to Avalon. One Fey is, logically, not worth the lives of so many. He can say that tracking down escaped lone Fey is his business, but he also is aware that is not the entire story. He cannot explain it to Nimue though, Pym has kept his secrets. He can do the same for her.

“She does,” he says.

“You talk more with her,” Nimue observes, “and with Squirrel. Perhaps in time you’ll have more you speak freely with.”

“Arthur isn’t terrible to talk to,” he says finally.

“No,” Nimue agrees, something wistful and bittersweet in her voice, “he isn’t terrible. He trusts you as well. You’ve proven you belong here more than you realize.”

“This is where I belong,” he says. He hears what she is not saying, “I didn’t feel this way with the Paladins. Gawain saw it.”

Her relief is palpable. She doesn’t trust him, she will never learn to. Not when she moves beyond all of this. But he knows what she’s seeking. He’s sorry that they come to this at two such radically different places. Sorry and grateful that in his own struggles about his loyalty, he was not alone.

“Gawain had that talent.”

He doesn’t correct her.

“I told him to kill you if you betrayed them,” she says, “I’d ask for your word, but—“ she trails off with a cold smile.

Being told he’ll be killed if he betrays them is how Lancelot has always functioned. The promise of consequence is a powerful motivator, he’s always known that. It just surprises him how there can be more powerful motivators in things he never considered. The desire to protect and stay besides Squirrel and Pym is more powerful than the promise of a gruesome death. It’s more powerful even than the promise of hellfire. He doesn’t say it. His words don’t mean anything and he knows that.

“I should return,” he says, “if that’s all.”

“It is. The magic will wear off shortly,” Lancelot nods and moves to the entrance, “Lancelot,” he stops, it’s an odd thing to hear his name but he turns, “always strive to be worthy of their sacrifices for you,” she says, “it may seem simple but their friendship is worth more than you know.”

He nods again, it’s the fastest way out of the tent. Only then does he allow himself to feel the guilt and annoyance. He knows they have made sacrifices, that they could both very easily turn their backs. But he knows that they won’t do it. He also knows that they don’t expect him to repay them, if there is even a way to do it. They have not asked him to do anything. Not even to stop praying. He wonders if that is what Nimue meant, but he doesn’t focus on asking for clarification. He needs to return before Pym wakes up. He quickens his pace and pushes open the tent flaps. She’s still asleep. Squirrel is nearby, watching like he was told to. Relief drums through him. He doesn’t question it, it’s the end of a task that hasn’t gone wrong. But it’s almost a comfort to sit down and let the tension of that conversation with Nimue go.

“What did she want?” Squirrel asks.

“To make sure I wasn’t planning on leaving,” Lancelot says. Squirrel rolls his eyes.

“That’s ironic,” he scoffs. Lancelot gives him a sharp look, “well she’s the one whose leaving.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Lancelot corrects him. Squirrel folds his arms, “you need to speak to her,” Lancelot says, “you’ll regret it if you don’t,” Squirrel doesn’t retort, “we’ll go when Pym wakes.”

“She didn’t move while you were gone,” Squirrel says.

Lancelot nods. He didn’t expect her to since she’s not naturally asleep. She’s in the exact same position, arms around the book and her face still. He bound her hair in case the spell released her to a more natural sleep. He’s come to learn that she is not a still sleeper. The confines of her bedroom or her hammock seem to be the only thing that keeps her from tossing from one end of the tent to the other.

True to her word, Nimue’s spell starts to ease.

Lancelot slips his hand into hers as she wakes, mimicking the position from when she went to sleep as best he can. It’s a close enough match that when she opens her eyes and sees him, there’s a moment before the panic sets in. As though she’s just blinked. If the spell is as he thinks it was, to her it has been just a blink. Then she notices the change in light. Her fingers clench on his as she looks around.

“It’s morning,” Squirrel says when she looks at him.

“What?” She winces as she let’s go of his hand and the book, sitting up and rubbing her arms. Her throat bobs, “wait, which morning—“

“Nimue is fine,” Lancelot says before the panic can start, “nothing has happened.”

She visibly relaxes. Squirrel gets the waterskin and hands it to her. She takes it and drinks gratefully. A dry mouth and sore arms are small problems but not pleasant things to wake up to. Pym sets down the water and looks between the two of them, going faintly pink at her cheeks.

“I’m alright,” she says, “just disoriented. It feels like I just blinked,” she presses her hand to her forehead, “and like I’ve slept the whole night for the first time in weeks,” she shakes her head to clear it, “thank you for making sure I was safe.”

“Anytime,” Squirrel says.

“Let’s go to Nimue,” Lancelot tells him. Squirrel nods. Pym opens her mouth and looks at him, “I explained what’s happening, he’s going to make amends.”

Surprise wipes the expression from her face. When she opens her mouth he half expects her to scold him. But she nods instead, looking almost weak with relief. She mouths her thanks to him and touches Squirrel’s shoulder, turning him to face her.

“She has a lot on her mind, but she’s still our friend,” she says. Squirrel looks heartbreaking young before he nods, “remember that.”

“I will.”

“Good,” she says.

Lancelot leads Squirrel to Nimue’s tent. He knows that they need their privacy, but when he sees Kaze standing with her he feels relieved. Kaze looks at him and at Squirrel and nods. He knows Nimue would never do anything to the boy, but he also knows she does not want him there. If he can leave Squirrel with Kaze and give them the privacy they want, it’s best for everyone. He clasps Squirrel’s shoulder and nudges the boy inside.

“Can you wait here?” Squirrel asks.

“I’ll see you back at the tent,” he says.

Squirrel nods, puffing up at the trust before he steps inside. Lancelot makes his way back towards the tent when he sees a figure making their way to the woods. He doesn’t need anything but his eyes to see the figure is alone. He pauses for a moment before turning and following them as they step into the small opening between the rolling fog and the tree line. Lancelot doesn’t hide his presence, but Arthur is still surprised when he turns around.

“Lancelot, Is something wrong?” He asks, his hand going to his sword.

“I saw you head into the woods alone,” he says, feeling foolish at stating the obvious.

“Ah,” Arthur nods, “I’m not good company at the moment.”

Lancelot nods and doesn’t move. Arthur looks at him silently. Then he shrugs and turns back to the fog. Lancelot isn’t sure if he’s being dismissed. Even if he is, the redness in Arthur’s eyes says it would be foolish to leave him alone and vulnerable. Lancelot has spent his entire life surrounded by people who would prefer he wasn’t there, but until recently he has protected them all. Arthur reaches out and brushes his hand across the fog.

“It’s a shame they’d couldn’t just stay here,” he says, “no-one would have to die or move on.”

“This is no place to live.”

Arthur swallows and nods.

“I thought it would feel more like Morgana,” he says.

Lancelot looks at him sharply. It occurs to him suddenly that in all of this, Arthur may be losing the most. Again. Morgana is not truly alive but Lancelot has no idea if this will be the end of her making trips. If going to this Fey place will sacrifice her last ties to humanity. Nimue is not truly alive either, but what she is about to become will be something far beyond what she is now.

“Will Morgana be able to come back?”

Arthur makes a sound like a wet laugh.

“That’s the question,” he says, “probably, but it’s not for certain. All of this is unknown.”

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot says quietly.

“You know she’s been helping the Fey the entire time? Even when she was in your church. Did any of you know?” He shakes his head. Arthur’s wet eyes shine with pride, “she was always good at getting out of trouble. It used to drive me mad,” he smiles wistfully, “I suppose that’s the thing about siblings, younger ones at least. They drive you mad and when they’re gone, you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

It’s not something he should understand but he thinks about Squirrel testing his patience and vows with every parting of his lips. He thinks of being glad to see him run off but also being struck by now quiet the forest became without him. Mostly he thinks of Squirrel spitting in Father’s face and the sinking realization that he was about to do something incredibly foolish. All to protect one scrawny, infuriating, very brave boy.

“She may come back,” Lancelot offers.

“As what?” Arthur asks bitterly, “if she comes back as something worse, is that my fault for wanting her here?” He shakes his head, “I can’t be that selfish. No matter how badly I want her here. No matter how badly she deserved a full and happy life,” he wipes under his eyes, “so I came here, so she wouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“It’s not safe here,” Lancelot points out. Arthur nods and smiles mirthlessly.

“But here I am.”

Lancelot nods and turns his back. He cannot leave Arthur alone but he can sense the man blood doesn’t want company. Giving him privacy while keeping watch seems to be the best option he has. He can feel Arthur’s gaze on him until it breaks and the man looks away. He makes it over to a tree and quietly gives in to his grief as Lancelot keeps watch. The fog seems to filter through the trees and he wonders if Morgana is aware and also giving Arthur his grief. Lancelot wonders if this will be how everyone is for a while.

He wonders if it will be him, eventually.

The focus on keeping them safe has kept him ahead. It always has. The binding between him and his emotions has been silenced and frayed for so long, he was nearly convinced he lost the ability to put his emotions into words. That’s not the case. But he thinks that the pit of what he’s done is something that he will not emerge from. It’s not something he has earned the right to confront. So he allows the others their grief and he keeps watch, as best he can. It isn’t long before Arthur comes back to him.

“Thank you,” Arthur says.

Lancelot nods. Arthur gives him a long look.

“We should return,” he says.

They make their way back. Though they haven’t gone far, the change is immediate when they step out. Tents are coming down and more glances are being cast towards the ice. It’s almost time. Lancelot isn’t going with them but he feels his heart sink at the aftermath. Arthur scrubs his face and gathers himself before going to his sister. He sees Gawain with the rest of the children, including Bors. Lancelot makes his way back to the tent. Pym is sitting on her bedroll, lost in her thoughts. She looks up when he comes in.

“It’s time, isn’t it,” she says.

“They’re getting ready,” he confirms.

She opens and closes her mouth before nodding.

“I wasn’t supposed to be one of the last,” she says quietly.

“Neither was I.”

She looks at him, surprised, before she remembers what he means. There’s an odd relief that comes over her. It changes the scent coming off of her. It shouldn’t, there’s nothing that will make this better or easier. But the knowledge that someone has done this as well, that you aren’t alone, it seems to be enough. For now. She stands up, sliding the book into a sack of cloth and putting it over her should. It hangs the book at her hip.

She takes a deep breath and steps out to face the others.

Lancelot follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! If you had feelings on what you read please let me know, I love hearing from you guys. Thank you to everyone who commented/left kudos on the last chapter. Your response helps keep me focused! Onwards to the next chapter!


	41. Ash: Part 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who skip the author's note, please make an exception and read this one! Or the first two paragraphs. Otherwise you will be confused.

The ice holds.

Pym isn’t sure if she’s disappointed or happy or some combination. Morgana steps onto the ice, she doesn’t whisk herself across like she can. She holds her lantern high and steps forward. As she does, Pym sees her gown begin to change. The heavy simple dress begins to shimmer, beads appearing from nowhere. The shape changes as well. Volume gives way and the fabric wraps and drapes over her shoulder. It’s as if by entering the place, it has become hers. Not the reflection of someone else. She turns back and smiles at Arthur. Then she continues on her way. She makes it across and onto the docks and lifts the lantern. She’s a shimmering speck but she’s there.

The others follow.

They go in waves, clans go together and those who no longer have clans find places with others. They intend to die together, if the ice breaks. But it doesn’t. It holds. As the first make it there, the sound of laughter rings back to them. Pym takes a deep breath and listens to them as they find something wondrous on the other side. She wants to know what, but she bites back the words. She keeps her tongue silent and her feet still as they make it across and to this new place. The groups stop coming and her heart drops with the realization of what will come next.

“If there is anyone else who wishes to go now, you may,” Nimue says.

Squirrel’s hand finds hers. Pym looks at him and sees her own doubts looking back at her. She squeezes his hand back and nods. If he wants to go, she won’t stop him. But he shakes his head and steps closer to her. She loops her arm around his shoulder and reaches down with her other hand to take a hold of Bors.

“It’s not too late,” she tells him.

“I don’t want to go,” he says.

“You can stay here with us,” she assures him.

Nimue looks at them and Pym shakes her head. Disappointment shines in Nimue’s eyes but she nods. Pym knows that it would be easier if they went, if they were truly safe like the others are supposed to be. But she knows that she can’t. None of them can. No matter how easier it would be on others. They don’t belong there yet. A shadow comes over her and she looks to see Lancelot.

“You two stay here,” she says to the boys, “I need to help Nimue.”

They grip each others hands and she walks to where Nimue is standing. Lancelot doesn’t move to help her, but she knows that he’s there if she stumbles. Which is lucky because while her feet feel steadier, the knowledge she’s about to witness Nimue’s death makes her feel weak and lightheaded in a much worse way. Nimue’s somehow dressed in her blue silks, though there’s more gold threaded through them. Gold for a harvest that she will never see. Never pray for. Nimue takes her hands and clasps them. Pym ignores the lingering anger.

“I was always lucky to have you,” Nimue says, “if I could have had all the friends or you, I would have chosen you.”

They embrace and Pym can feel wetness on her shoulder. Just as she feels her own tears fall on Nimue’s shoulder. Though lower down. Nimue has always been the taller of them.

  
“Don’t be afraid,” Pym says, “you’ll be as extraordinary as you always have been. The sword chose well,” she tightens her arms around her friend, “I did too.”

Nimue sobs softly and then pulls back, wiping her cheeks on her sleeves. Even though there’s precious few of them left, Pym knows that she wishes to be strong. She steps back to where Merlin is waiting a few paces away. When they are next to each other, the resemblance starts to show through. In how they stand and move, walk and speak. Pym wishes that there was more time, more time for all of this. But Nimue’s words about Merlin living long echo in her ears. They have to respect each other’s choices. Nimue looks over her shoulder and nods. Pym feels the air behind her get cooler and turns to watch as Lancelot approaches the ice.

She’s seen him decimate large parts of the forrest, but without a source she doesn’t know how it will work. If it will work. He walks over to the edge of the water. He crouches down and puts his hands into the water, underneath the ice. She watches as he closes his eyes and tilts his head, as though he’s listening to something only he can hear. She knows to turn her face away but she watches anyway as his palms start to glow green. The Fey Fire starts to lap out from underneath his palms and spreads. She inhales sharply as the ice begins to illuminate a bright blue green. Lancelot opens his eyes and looks out. His marks absorb the glare but the ice dampens it further. She realizes he’s judging how far the spread is.

The ice breaks.

It thins and then it starts to crack audibly. She hears Lancelot take a sharp breath and the cracks begin to widen. As the ice thins, the water becomes difficult to look at. Pym turns her gaze away as the others do the same. The cracks begin to grow farther apart and silent, until the sound of the water moving freely about is the only thing she can hear. The bright green fire that casts their shadows all around winks out as Lancelot pulls his hands from the water. He turns from it and nearly bends himself in half to hide what he is doing. This is a Fey rite, his prayers don’t have a place here. It doesn’t take him very long to make the Fire go. The green vanishes entirely and Pym gasps at the cold that floods through her.

She looks up to the lake. Unbound by the ice, it churns and swirls. It looks angry to her eyes. Not like somewhere that Nimue should go. Even Nimue pales slightly at the sight of it, though Pym can recognize her stubbornness. She looks back at her father. For once, Merlin looks like the wizard of legend. He nods at her and Nimue straightens up, as though she draws strength from the same place he finds his. She takes the Sword and draws it, holding it in front of her. The blackened waters seem to tremble in their turmoil, as though they too recognize her power.

“All of you who stand here today, man blood and Fey alike, shall have a place at Avalon. Whenever you wish it.”

Pym follows her gaze to see Arthur and Guinevere standing nearby each other. Kaze, Gawain, Bors and Percival are another group. The other Fey and Raiders are scattered about with no sense to where they are standing. As if they are one people. Finally Nimue’s gaze locks with hers again, though she stops at Lancelot as well. As if letting him know that he has a place here as well. She looks at them both as she stands there.

“Until we all pass into the twilight, I wish you nothing but happiness in the dawn.”

Nimue smiles one final time at her and then gets a look of peace on her face. She steps forward, holding the sword in front of her. Pym feels herself step forward, as if pulled by an invisible string to follow her. But Lancelot’s hand falls to her shoulder, grounding her away from the water, even as it laps at her ankles and the hem of her dress. Nimue walks slowly and Pym can only watch as the water stains upwards on her dress, spreading out in a of promise of what is to come. Her waist darkens as the water rises past her thighs, her chest as it rises past her waist, her hair flows behind her and several of the flowers pull free. Pym finds her own chest rising and falling in time with Nimue’s, like it did when they were girls trying to breathe in sync.

She takes one final breath with her as the waters cover her head.

Pym holds her breath as her lungs burn and the sword sinks beneath the waters. She holds her breath like they are girls again, seeing who can hold their breath longer when they swam in the lake. It was always Nimue. But every time Pym would hold it a little longer. Always pushed on by her extraordinary friend and her wonderful abilities. Pym refuses to exhale. She can share one more breath with her. As long as she doesn’t exhale then nothing will happen. It’s not about winning some girlish game. It’s about holding one final breath so they can exist together in some way. Even just for another moment.

The lake stills.

It’s as if it’s been frozen again. It goes perfectly and completely still. Behind her the mists break. The sound is audible and it forces the remaining air from her lungs as she sucks in a new breath. She turns to see the mist rolling towards them. It’s like they are a living thing reaching for her as if to push her into the water. It wouldn’t be the worst way to die. She steps back to make it easier on them but only gets one step behind her before she finds herself lifted and turned around and the world suddenly dark.

For a moment, she thinks she may have fainted again.

Or this is some mercy from Nimue.

But the arms that wrap around her back and solid and warm. And the chest that she’s pressed against rises and falls with a living heartbeat. Faintly she can smell that incense the Paladins use, but it’s overwhelmed by the smell of fire and musk. The mists swallow them. She buries her face in Lancelot’s chest and fists her hands in his doublet as it makes everything go white and hazy.

When his arms relax, she looks past him to see nothing.

It’s a still lake and a beautiful sunset. The sky is clear. When she looks to where Avalon should be, there’s nothing there. It’s like seeing Morgana vanish from one place. She always reappears but Pym cannot say where. She blinks stupidly at the place that’s absent of land and tries to put her shock into words.

“Look at the water,” Lancelot says, “where the reflection was.”

Pym focuses and realizes that she can see the reflection still. It’s lost in the gentle motion of the lake, if she didn’t know where to look she imagines she would miss it entirely. But she does and she can see the shores, the lights of people’s lanterns. All skewed but all there. A place removed from this world. They are safe. She can see that, but as she looks across the water she realizes she cannot see Nimue.

The fear and emotions that have churned inside her seem to vanish like Avalon. She thinks that maybe she’s felt too much in these past weeks. She’s reached her limit and she’ll never feel again. They are safe, that’s the only thing that matters. Suddenly even the idea of breathing seems to be a lot of work. NImue’s gone and the others are with her. They are safe and somehow Pym is one of the last adult Sky Folk standing on these shores.

It’s only Lancelot who keeps her upright.

He’s helped shoulder her weight before but he takes all of it just as easily. The water seems to wrap around her feet, like it’s a hand reaching for her. It seems desperate to hold on as Lancelot picks her up and carries her back from the water. It’s Merlin who moves forward, welcoming the embrace. It’s Arthur who grabs him and pulls him back.

“Curse you, let me die,” Merlin spits at him.

“Not yet,” Arthur snaps, hauling him back.

“I want to join them—“

“You haven’t earned the right!” Arthur bellows and even that silences Merlin.

Arthur pushes him back and Gawain hauls him up. As the man turns to go, he pauses. Pym tightens her grip on Lancelot. She can’t see Arthur’s face but he steps forward, the water lapping at his thighs. The idea of losing him makes her heart stop. If fear is the only emotion she’s to know, then she wishes for death. Before she can push Lancelot to put her down Arthur sinks his hand into the water. For a stupid moment, Pym thinks when he pulls it free Nimue will be on the other end. That she’ll get some measure of happiness.

When he lifts his hand, he pulls the Sword free.

Water drips from the tips of it. Pym is half sure she imagines a glimpse of Nimue’s blue sleeve and pale hand in the reflection, but if she does it’s only moments before it sinks beneath the water. In the end the only thing there is Arthur, holding the sword. The chosen one. He stares down the dripping blade and down at the water below.

“Arthur.”

Despite all the screaming that’s happened and all the big words, the quiet way that Guinevere says his name echoes louder. Even to Arthur who looks half mad. She hasn’t moved. It’s a miracle that he’s heard her at all. But he has and he turns to her. She holds out a hand and he steps from the shining water. It’s one foot in front of the other, though the water seems to cling to him and call him back. He chooses to move away.

He chooses them.

He stands in front of Guinevere with the sword in his hand. The light from the setting sun burns across it’s runes. Guinevere looks from the sword to him and nods. When she reaches for him, Arthur’s eyes roll up and he collapses boneless at her feet. The sword falls from his hand and the runes go dark. Pym watches her drop to her knees and reach for the sword, but when she tries to touch it she can’t. Pym doesn’t know if Arthur has made it glow, if Nimue has or some combination. But the sword is his now.

Nimue is gone.

Pym manages a final breath and follows the chosen one into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends the Avalon arc! If I had split up this fic as I was intending to, this would have been the end of the first fic. But I didn't see a point in splitting everything up like that, the only reason would have been to avoid a very high chapter count as all the arcs are in the same agonizing slowburn we all love so much. Plus when I posed the question people seemed more in favor of a very long fic vs a few shorter ones. So for simplicity's sake I'm going to keep it as one fic. The next chapter is going to be an interlude that covers a bit of time (not an excessively long period but like a few weeks). Then we'll get into the next arc.
> 
> I'm also open to splitting it up if one or the other sounds more appealing. I'm leaning towards keeping it together but you can let me know here or at my [Tumblr](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/ask) if you feel strongly either way.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts on the story! Your feedback is so important, I love hearing from all of you. I'll see you in the next chapter!


	42. Ash & Tinder

It takes several days for Arthur’s fever to break.

Pym rides in the cart alongside him, pouring over the book as Arthur sweats and shivers. His eyes dart beneath his shut lids. She does her best to make the teas the books recommend but sometimes they are too strong. She finds that men react quicker than Fey but adjusts accordingly. She spends her day’s reading and putting cold cloths on his forehead to try and bring his temperature down. At night she forces herself to eat and then returns to the cart. Most nights, she sleeps there and wakes with a choked sound, covered in a blanket she doesn’t remember pulling up.

His fever breaks eventually and he looks up at her blearily.

“I hoped it was a dream.”

“No,” she says regretfully, changing the cloth on his forehead. Arthur struggles to keep his eyes open and she smiles as best she can, “rest,” Pym urges.

Arthur slips under again, but his fever doesn’t return.

* * *

“Breathe out,” Kaze orders, “and imagine it vanishing as you do.”

Lancelot inhales deeply and holds the breath in his lungs. Kaze regards him from behind strips of fabric she’s tied around her eyes. The Fire should blind her but she gives him an unimpressed look when he says as much. Apparently the reflection of the sun is nothing she hasn’t dealt with. He exhales sharply and nothing happens. So he takes another breath and tries again. Kaze makes a disgusted sound.

“Get rid of it your way before it burns us all.”

Lancelot says a quick prayer as silently as he can, the flames wink out.

“It was a good idea,” he says.

“It didn’t work,” she corrects, “does your God speak to you?” She asks, “do you feel him there?” It takes him a moment to shake his head, “so why do you pray?”

“Faith.”

“Faith,” she repeats and looks at his hands, “maybe he is speaking to you and you need to learn how to listen.”

**

“Arthur’s alright,” she says, approaching the tent. Squirrel and Lancelot both turn to her and Pym feels her face grow hot. This spur of the moment idea was a bad one, she sees that now, but they’re both looking at her, “it’s not comfortable sleeping in the cart. I thought—“

“Of course you can sleep here,” Squirrel says. Lancelot nods, “He snores though so you might need some cotton for your ear—ow!” He squats at Lancelot’s cuff, “You do!”

“Go inside and clear her a place.”

“Shouldn’t you do that, Squire?”

Lancelot gives him a look and Squirrel huffs off into the tent. Pym knows she’s been avoiding him. Avoiding both of them. Focusing on Arthur was necessary but she feels terribly foolish about it none the less. They’ve both spoken in passing and acknowledged each other, but she knows she’s pulled back. It hasn’t been long but it’s not unnoticed. She picks at the edge of her bedroll as Lancelot comes closer but stops well away from as close as he had been coming.

“Thank you for bringing this, and the food,” she says.

He nods.

“I needed to focus on Arthur.”

“You don’t need to explain,” he says and Pym wonders how his voice is less hoarse than before.

“I haven’t been crying in the cart over it,” she says abruptly, “I don’t feel anything really,” she wonders how this has turned so elegantly, “I think I’m supposed to.”

“You will,” he says.

“That’s what scares me,” she admits.

“I cleared a space,” Squirrel says, “welcome back.”

Pym fights the urge to correct him.

* * *

He’s accustom to Squirrel snoring on one side.

It takes a bit to get reacquainted with the rhythm of Pym’s breathing. She hasn’t been gone long enough for her scent to fade, but there is a difference between a scent trail and the one who originates it. It’s distracting him, in a way that it hasn’t been since they first started traveling together. Or perhaps it’s just how her scent has changed. One night it changes sharply and he hears her stir, swear and move out of the tent as quietly as she can.

He waits a moment and follows.

“I’m fine, Lancelot,” she says. He opens his mouth to refute the statement and she sighs deeply, turning around so quickly they nearly topple into each other, “go back.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Pym sighs again and presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose. She looks embarrassed and frustrated. Lancelot understands that she needs her space in her grief and has walked the line between helpful and giving that to her as best he can. She hasn’t been a danger to herself. She hasn’t been bleeding. Pym drops her hands and turns, continuing on into the woods. She doesn’t tell him to go so he follows, looking out for any of their enemies.

“We’ve know each other a month,” she says as they come up to a stream. He looks at her blankly still, “women bleed every month,” she says.

“What?”

“You must have some—“ she stops, “women bleed every month,” she says, “it’s how you know your body can carry a child. There’s no injuries, it just happens. Once you have a child, it stops and then it returns,” she heads to the water, “it’s going to change everyone’s scent.”

Lancelot listens to what she’s saying and steadies his heart. It’s not a problem, which is a good thing. But it is something he has no frame of reference for. He’s been around men of the Cloth for most of his life. The Guard allows women, the Paladins don’t. He hasn’t known any woman long enough to notice the change in scent. Not like this. There’s a handful of Fey women traveling with them. Including Tristain. Pym cleans herself up and when she comes back, he forces himself not to focus on the difference and keep the look off his face.

“I was concerned—“

“It’s alright,” she says, “I didn’t realize it would come up,” she shakes her head, “that was a mistake on my part.”

“Other things have been happening.”

She gives him a look and he shrugs. They have been. She sighs and looks back at the water, the emotion falling off her face. It’s the first time they’ve been near anything resembling a lake. He watches her hands curl around themselves and grasps her wrist. She jumps at the contact but her eyes focus on him instead of the water. He lifts her hand and looks at the burn.

“It’s healing,” he says.

“Not as fast as yours,” she replies.

“But it’s healing,” he says, letting her hand go, “that’s what matters.”

* * *

“You have to hold still.”

“Shut up and let’s put your arm back in place instead!”

Pym sighs and focuses on the misshapen joint. Guinevere swears loudly. They’re running low on booze and ale so she’s doing this without her preferred method of pain relief. A hunting party has gone out but she’s trying not to think about that either. Instead she focuses on Guinevere’s shoulder.

“Stop squirming.”

“I am not squirming!”

“They’re going to hear you yell if you don’t let me do this!”

“I am not going to—“

Pym wrenches the joint back and Guinevere does yell, though it’s her so it’s more a war cry than a scream. But her shoulder is back where it should be. That’s the most important thing. Pym’s learned that once joints are back in place, they don’t hurt nearly as much. Guinevere gives her shoulder an experimental flex and drops it. She doesn’t scream so there’s that. Pym breathes a sigh of relief. It’s been done correctly. She did it correctly.

“Better?” She asks. Guinevere shrugs, “you should rest it.”

“We’re riding tomorrow,” Guinevere says. Pym’s mouth goes dry, it’s an unmistakable command.

“I don’t—“

“You’ll take Nimue’s horse. We need the cart for supplies.”

Pym cringes at Nimue’s name. Guenievre gives her a sharp look and she tries to push the feeling away. If anyone deserved to rest in Avalon, it was Old Boy. But the horse had stayed behind. Pym knows it’s not worth the argument with Guinevere. But the idea of riding him without Nimue makes her—feel isn’t the right word. She still doesn’t feel anything. But something a lot closer to it than she’s been experiencing.

“I haven’t ridden,” she says.

“It hasn’t been that long,” Guinevere says. Pym opens her mouth and she holds up a hand, “I’m not listening to your excuses. Tell them the wall, it has more patience,” she stands up, “are they back yet?”

Pym is left staring at the wall.

She doesn’t want to give it excuses.

But she would like it if the piece of fabric could tell her why it feels like she’s drowning when she hasn’t been near the water in days.

* * *

“Again.”

Squirrel picks up the stick and moves through the motions. It’s tedious, but he needs to learn. Ever since he and Kaze sparred, Lancelot has noted Squirrel is much more agreeable to the tedious groundwork. He finishes the sequence of movements and looks at Lancelot hopefully. Lancelot motions him back to the start.

  
“Again.”

It takes several more times before he finishes and doesn’t look at him. That’s when Lancelot picks up his own stick and motions him back to the starting point. Squirrel looks at him cautiously and adjusts his fingers.

“Again.”

This time when he moves, Lancelot meets his blow with one of his own. The change is instantaneous. Squirrel moves faster and puts force behind the blows. Lancelot matches him easily. When Squirrel steps forward and loses his balance, Lancelot sidesteps him. Squirrel rolls and gets back up to his feet, just managing to block.

“Good,” Lancelot says, “keep your weight back. Don’t let an opponent throw you off balance.”

“Let’s go again!”

* * *

“Will it heal?”

Pym rubs the poultice across Arthur’s palm. She wishes that she had an answer to the question. The vines are burned into his palm, mimicking the leather wraps on the sword. She has no doubt that they were put there by Nimue. She just isn’t sure why yet.

“I think it will get better,” she says, “but it will scar.”

“I don’t mind scars.”

Pym nods and sets about wrapping his hand. The Sword rests in his other as he turns it slowly with his palm. The tip rests on the ground. Pym wishes that she had a better answer for him but things are not so simple. She binds off his hand and he flexes it against the wrapping.

“Thank you,” he says.

  
“Of course,” she replies. He doesn’t get up. Pym senses that he wants to talk, “if you’ll excuse me—“

“It’s not as scary as you think,” Arthur says.

Pym stiffens.

“Letting yourself feel and mourn, it doesn’t have to be the end of the world.”

“The world already ended,” Pym says.

“Not for us,” Arthur says. She tries to swallow and finds it difficult, “there’s a way through this,” he says, “when you’re ready.”

“I’m not,” Pym says.

Arthur settles a hand on her shoulder. Not the scarred one, the other one. Pym tries not to jump at the contact, even though it’s brief and inconsequential. She knows he’s just trying to be kind and helpful but it feels far too close to pain. She wonders if she’s going to be stuck like Lancelot was, craving pain because it’s the only thing that makes you feel. She wonders if he’s still stuck there. She manages a nod.

“Excuse me,” she says again and flees.

**

“I’m not a child,” Tristain snaps up at him.

“You act like one,” Lancelot says cooly and moves the spoon towards her mouth.

Like every mouthful, the need for sustenance wars with her pride. But in the end she’s smart enough to take the food. She doesn’t have freedom with her hands and Lancelot knows very well what she’ll do for something like eating that takes the iron close to her mouth. But that means that she has to be fed.

“You want to live,” he observes.

“Of course I want to live,” she snaps, “I am of more use to Him alive.”

“You delay the hellfire,” he says.

“A small price to pay. My brothers in arms will pray for me.”

“They haven’t come for you.”

It’s the first stab of doubt he’s seen on her face. She doesn’t even try to say that she came alone. That they have no reason to look for her. If no-one has found her these few weeks, they are not looking for her. He sees her shift her shoulders. He wonders if they are alike, if they both ache for the flog. He always knew that if he got taken, he wouldn’t be looked for. Tristain doesn’t seem to have considered that. Lancelot almost pities her.

“I’m needed here,” she says, “if God wills it, I shall return to my brothers.”

“If they’ll have you back.”

She goes paler but then snarls and looks up at him.

“They will when I bring them your head.”

“Maybe,” he says, “or our heads will hang side by side on the Vatican walls since we’re both traitors.”

“I am—“

“You didn’t tell them about the Fire.”

She has no response for that except to turn her face from the next spoonful, breathing hard. The wider swath of her marks makes them catch the light more easily. Even the dim light of the torches makes them glow. Lancelot tries one more time and accepts she’s eaten enough to survive without wasting away.

“You knew keeping our secret was more important,” he says, “they know you’re not blindly loyal.”

“They are still my brothers,” she says.

“The Fey are your brothers,” he says, “that’s why you still have a head.”

“You are not my brothers,” she says.

“We are,” Lancelot says, “by the time you see that, I’ll be able to teach you.”

“I would rather burn,” she spits after him.

She’s not alone in the desire.

* * *

“We make for here,” Guinevere says, “put our backs to the sea. Eydis has burned any ship nearby, they have no way of getting to us.”

“It’s a village,” Pym says.

“The ruins of one,” Lancelot corrects. “I’ve been there.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. Pym doesn’t want to go to a village that’s been burned down, but if it’s a good strategic point then she can’t object. Not just because it doesn’t sound like a pleasant place to be.

“Has it been rebuilt?” Guinevere asks.

“I don’t know,” Lancelot says, “there was a church that should still be standing.”

“Can you secure it?” Lancelot nods.

“Good, as long as we don’t get boxed in it should give us some time to regroup,” she says, “we make for there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been about two months with a lot of complicated emotions that aren't dealt with, but grief is rarely a straight line. As I said I am continuing this as one massive story. The vast majority of you seemed to want that and it was what I was inclined to do. However a few of you expressed concern about losing your place and large chapter counts not being your favorite thing. So I have an accessible version here:
> 
> [Firebird](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917388)
> 
> . Now this is the exact same story so I have marked it as an original work so no-one thinks I'm double posting. I will post the chapters here first and then each arc will be broken out there if that's your preference.
> 
> Let me know what you thought of the chapter! Your feedback is so appreciated and helps me stay motivated. See you in the next one!


	43. Tinder: Part 1

The door opens with a groan.

Lancelot’s hand drops to his sword as he looks inside. It’s the only building still standing, the only one untouched. He slips inside and lets the door close behind him. He inhales the familiar scents. His eyes scan through the gloom and dust. The groan should have alerted anyone, but if they are not already hiding he would have heard something. He lingers in the doorway for a moment longer before he forces himself forward.

It’s his own mind that makes the hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand up. His own complicated emotions that settle in the pit of his stomach. The stone walls and wooden pews are largely untouched, or they are underneath a fine coat of dust and ash. He rubs it between his fingertips. He can catch the few lingering specks of Fey mixed in with other things. He makes it midway up the nave before he allows himself to look upon the crossing. The crucifix stands there proud and untouched, as if even the ash wouldn’t dare lay on it. The itch on his back becomes an ache as he looks at it. It’s joined by an itch on his scalp. A reminder of the marks of devotion that no longer proclaim him a Man of God. His sword is stolen from the Paladins, but his thumb rests on the cross all the same. His breath catches and holds in his lungs.

Nothing happens.

Nothing ever happens.

A humorless smile comes to his lips as he shifts his hand higher, settling it to a more practical position where he can draw the sword. He doesn’t know why he thought that anything would be different. He moves further into the church, looking around the corners and anywhere that someone would be able to hide. It’s a simple village church. It’s not big nor elaborate nor anything splendid. In a time not terribly long ago, Lancelot would have said that didn’t matter. The Lord was a simple man. Now he thinks it doesn’t matter for a very different reason. It’s just a house, covered in a fine layer of dust and sacrificed people and Fey. He moves down the nave, ignoring the voice in his head that reminds him never to turn his back to God.

Those ways are a lie.

They always were.

“It’s empty,” he says, opening the door.

“And you weren’t struck down,” Guinevere says, moving past him into the church.

Lancelot smiles humorlessly at the observation. It’s not the first time he’s heard it. Nor is it the first time he’s wished for it to happen. Being struck down would mean he would feel something besides longing. Longing and absence. He steps aside to let her enter, leading in the odd assortment of Fey, Raiders and ordinary people. There’s not many of them, but a few have joined them along the way. It won’t be enough to do any damage to Cumber or Eydis but these people aren’t here to fight a war. They’re here for what comes after.

Squirrel is one of the last ones to enter and looks up at the cross with trepidation that Lancelot hasn’t seen on his face in a while. He grips the boys shoulder and steers him besides him. Squirrel looks at it but says nothing. Only the slight tension in his shoulders speaks of anything besides this being another place to sleep. Gawain looks at the cross for a long moment. Lancelot can understand Squirrel’s fear. He can understand his own bitterness. Both still have the emotions. Gawain looks at the symbol of the thing that killed him for a long, quiet moment and then moves to stand with them.

“I suppose it’s lucky we weren’t struck down. Again.”

“It’s just a building,” Lancelot says.

Gawain gives him one of those piercing looks that seem to be reserved for when the former man has something to say but has deemed Lancelot not ready to hear. Lancelot waits for him to elaborate but Gawain gives a dreamy sort of sigh and moves forward. Lancelot swallows back anything resembling disappointment at how freely the thing Gawain has become moves around the consecrated ground. It’s a building, if he hasn’t been struck down then there’s no reason for anyone else to be struck down.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a glimmer of red.

He turns as Pym walks inside the church. There’s a quietness that’s has settled into her. It’s something broken, but soft. Like a piece of glass worn by the sea. He would think it was a normal part of mourning, but even Squirrel and Gawain are growing concerned. Lancelot can see the contrast, he remembers loosing everything as a boy and how different it was to loosing everything as a man. The element of choice doesn’t make it hurt less. It just adds a layer of guilt. Pym walks up the nave, her eyes moving over the iconography that the others have no reason recognize. She stops in front of the crucifix. Lancelot leaves Squirrel and approaches her.

The soft look on her face is dull, almost dreamy.

It’s like standing next to a twisted version of Gawain. Like she has moved past all the humanity and life she fought to keep. Even if he sees sparks of it now and then. They retreat far too quickly. Nimue’s words echo in his ears. To remember that Gawain was beyond all of this. He always thought that would be a good thing, now he isn’t so sure. Not on Pym.

“I can see how it’s shaped like a cross,” she says.

He nods, though she can’t see his face the corner of his hood must catch her eye. She presses her lips together and turns. Not fully. Unlike him she doesn’t turn her back to the crucifix. He told her that wasn’t something one did. He’s just surprised that she remembers.

“It’s strange to be indoors,” he says.

She nods and turns back.

Lancelot thinks of the fire and sitting next to her. When she explained that he was going to have to learn how to hold a conversation or no one was going to want to speak to him. That life would be easier if he was able to do it. He doubts either of them counted on things turning like this. He doesn’t want to ask if she’s alright when the answer is obvious, and he doesn’t think there’s a solution to this. Not one he can offer. It’s only in the past few days that she’s stopped stepping away so blatantly, but she still jumps at every direct touch. As though contact will force her out of whatever place she’s taken refuge in. She glances at the pews and move towards one.

“Stop,” he says. She turns and looks at him as he fights the irrational urge to move her hand, “it’s not just dust.”

“Oh,” she says and almost looks surprised before giving an equally almost embarrassed smile, “of course it’s not.”

The desire to apologize is not irrational, he reasons. The last time he was in this place he was a Holy Man charged by God. Or rather, he was a Holy Man charged by his master who claimed to know God’s will. The idea that he would return to this place with a group of enemies, that he would count himself among them—that Gawain would be proven right, it never occurred to him. Pym cups her hands and bends over the pew. It’s been a while since she’s used her magic. But the vines grow up her skin as she blows and sends the dust moving. It scatters to a precise place and hangs there, cloud like, before it drops into a neat pile.

Other scents spark brighter and he turns to see the odd assortment of Fey all seem to have a similar method, unique to their Folk. It occurs to him that he’s never seen them in anything but tents. They haven’t stopped in one place long enough to clear out dust. As they finish, Arthur comes in leading Tristain. There’s no recognition of this place on her. He doubts there would be. If the Paladins did the dirty work, there was never a need for the Guard to get involved.

“Wait,” he says. Arthur stops, “loosen your grip on her hands, but keep them from her face.”

Arthur does what he asks with only a curious look. Tristain spares him some venom in her glare before she genuflects in front of the crucifix, blessing herself as much as she can. Lancelot isn’t foolish enough to think she won’t use the iron for mortification. He lets her have a moment before nodding to Arthur who puts a hand on her. She rises unaided as he takes the chains again.

“That was kind of you,” Merlin rasps.

Lancelot nods towards her and Arthur, ignoring Merlin’s lingering look. If the Druid’s presence hasn’t offended God, he’s not sure what will. Or perhaps God is like Gawain and beyond things like this. None of it makes him feel better. But that’s not something to linger on. He goes over to Arthur.

“I’m going to clear the living quarters,” he says.

“They’re empty,” Merlin replies.

“Of anything living,” Arthur says and nods to him.

Lancelot returns the gesture. He looks for Squirrel and motions him over to Pym. Squirrel nods, instead of his usual protests and makes his way to where she’s sitting. Lancelot looks at the sunlight that seems to pool at her feet as the rest of her sits in the gloom and swallows back anything useless on the matter. He half remembers the way that connects. The door protests louder which is good for their safety, no matter what Merlin as said. It’s a handful of narrow rooms, nothing elaborate but it should give them the privacy no-one has had in a long time. There’s nothing living. Or dead, the dust in here is just dust. Things like what happened in the church would never take place back here.

He lingers in the doorway of one of the rooms.

He remembers unrolling his bedroll. He remembers kneeling in the narrow shaft of light and whispering his prayers. He remembers the weight of his flog and the feel of it against his back as it broke the skin. He remembers longing, with each breath. Longing and being filled with such disgust at the feeling. His life was forfeit, he was a Blade and nothing more. It seems foolish now. Perhaps the feeling of disgust is the thing he’s managed to keep with him throughout all of this. It would be fitting.

“It was kind, what you did for her,” Gawain says.

Lancelot returns his gaze to the spot of light where he knelt. Gawain moves past him and into the room. His head doesn’t move but Lancelot gets the impression that he takes in everything that happened here. Even Lancelot can’t say he knows all those who have been in this room seeking Grace. He watches as something moves from Gawain’s hand and grows, curling like a vine. It brushes against the floor and Gawain shudders, the dreamy look easing from his face for a dark moment.

“You suffered here,” he says. Lancelot’s mouth goes dry, “do you not remember?”

“I do,” he says.

“Not then,” he says, “the first time.”

Lancelot opens his mouth to deny that he’s been here more than once. But if he focuses and picks out the lingering scent of another Ash Folk, the memory echoes in the back of his head.

Everything warped and so much larger. His feet still clumsy from the sea as he looked around the strange place. He remembers being sick and being struck for it. He remembers Brother Salt’s eyes were freshly sewn. Still red and puffy. He remembers being thrown and biting through his lip, landing in front of the window.

Right where Gawain’s vine rests.

Lancelot opens his eyes to the world he remembers. Though his heart is racing with a sickening need to run. The boyhood memories are faint. What isn’t faint is the way Brother Salt smiled when they last stayed and insisted the switch rooms since he had no use for a window. He remembers Father clearing his throat and turning into his own room.

He remembers someone chuckling.

Gawain smiles sadly and he realizes his jaw is slack and his head is throbbing. He has the sudden urge to be sick. He tastes copper in the back of his throat and for a moment he feels as though he’s that boy again. He shoves the memory away as firmly as he can. He focuses instead on Gawain’s vine retreating and the sickly summer smell that comes off of him. Though even that is tainted with the image of violence.

“I’m sorry,” Gawain says, as he always does in moments like this.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lancelot says and his voice comes much raspier than has been in some time.

“It does.”

Lancelot turns away as the door screeches open. Guinevere comes in first, looking around. Followed by Arthur. There aren’t enough rooms for everyone and Lancelot is intensely grateful. He’d rather sleep with Goliath.

“Right. So, you should take one. We can have the orphans who wish in another. Pym—Pym!” Lancelot’s eyes move to the doorway as she appears, “you should take a room in case anyone needs privacy.”

Pym nods and looks around, peering into one room after another. She stops at the one he’s in front of and looks at him. Something must show on his face. He sees the detached look on hers waver. He can feel a bead of sweat make it’s way down his temple.

“Bad memories,” he says, “I’m fine.”

“A-alright,” she says. He tries not to think of a time when he would have prayed for her to just take his word on things, “excuse me.”

She sidesteps him and enters the room. He knows it does nothing. The bad things that have happened are just that. They are things that have happened. Memories are nothing more. But seeing her turn a slow circle in the room makes the nausea worse. In a way that he’s entirely unprepared for.

“This one has the best light,” Pym says, “has anyone claimed it?”

“No, that one can be yours,” Arthur says.

“Where are you sleeping?” Guinevere asks.

“Out there?” He says.

“No. Pick a room.”

“But—“

“Choose. You need your strength.”

“I’ll stay with the others,” Lancelot says, “they won’t be unguarded,” Guinevere nods, satisfied and Arthur looks down awkwardly, “we can take shifts,” Lancelot tries instead.

“A wise solution,” Gawain says, “we all need the rest.”

Guinevere looks less than thrilled but even she can see the practicality in it. 

“Let’s find a place for the horses,” she says, “and get this place ready for night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are off on our next adventure. As a friendly reminder, you can find this fic without the earlier chapters here: [Tinder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26398579/chapters/64307083). I am updating this one first but if anyone gets confused/intimidated/doesn't like the high chapter count you can find it there. Don't comment on both etc. This is just to make the fic accessible to as many people as possible.
> 
> Feedback is love! Please let me know what you thought and thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. They mean the world to me and I'm so glad people are enjoying this. I'm usually yelling or answering questions on this Tumblr [Venomrps](https://venomrps.tumblr.com). Onwards to the next chapter!


	44. Tinder: Part 2

The cot is narrow and hard.

Pym wishes that she hadn’t thought it was practical to get everything set up as best she could in one night. She hadn’t meant to lay down or close her eyes. She meant it only for a moment before she left to go sleep with the rest of them. Now though, she opens her eyes and wonders how she managed to fall asleep at all. She’s accustom to sleeping on the ground, which is considerably softer than whatever the bed is made of. She rubs the back of her neck and sits up. It’s the first time since the village burned down that she’s properly slept indoors. 

As hard and narrow as the cot is, she’s grateful for the door.

It’s a terrible thing to be grateful for. But she is. She’s been grateful for every scrap of quiet and privacy. Which is a strange feeling, because she’s usually not. She likes people. Generally speaking. She likes meeting them and talking to them and hearing their stories. Now when someone opens their mouth she just wishes for silence. She knows why too. It’s no mystery. She’s always been the type to feel people’s stories in her bones. And right now she just can’t do that. If she feels one thing, she’s going to feel everything. She’s like a corked beer or that stupid lake. The moment it pops or breaks, it’s just going to be foam and churning waters.

She’s going to drown.

She knows she’s going to drown. Not like Nimue, she’s going to drown properly. It feels like half the time when she dips a toe into the emotions, her lungs burn and her throat closes. She’s never been the bravest but she’s never been a coward either. But it scares her. More than she wishes. It’s better to linger in whatever refuge she’s found, where things aren’t good but they are alive. Like she chose. She chose this. She will do what she must to bear it.

For the first time, Pym unlaces her boots for the simple act of taking them off. The stone feels almost alien against her feet after so long. Being properly indoors without the sea and a gaping hole in the ceiling feels strange. She removes another outer layer, leaving her in just her dress. It’s another thing that hasn’t been for some time. It’s slightly—no it’s very dizzying. The downside is that everything is not within arms reach.

Or it’s empty.

Pym frowns at the empty waterskin. It takes her a moment to remember that being alone comes at a price. It hasn’t been her filling it up this time. The most she’s managed to feel is guilt. Usually vaguely. Squirrel has lost just as much, he’s a boy, but the idea of him seeing her grief feels like a violation. He’s a boy and he needs to be protected, in some way. She just doesn’t know how to do that without surrendering to the storm inside her. It’s better to save him from seeing that. Or seeing her so afraid. The guilt is also there with Lancelot. Which it shouldn’t be, this should make them even. But that feels hollow. It’s not the ways she swore to uphold. It’s an ugly thing to even think about. There’s no evening this and even if there was, she doesn’t want that. She cannot bare to feel safe. That will bring her too close to feeling things and she doesn’t want that.

But she wishes she would have asked why he looked so sick at the sight of the room.

Pym decides she’ll ask in the morning. He’s probably gone to sleep near Squirrel. Or he’s on watch. He’s learned to take shifts with Arthur, Gawain and Kaze. She sees them switching sometimes, when her eyes are tired and she can’t look at the High Summoner’s handwriting a moment longer. They’re in enemy territory now, though that could be said of anywhere at the moment. Pym knows it take time for that to change, but she’s so weary of being the enemy. She picks up the waterskin and goes to the door.

A fresh one is waiting for her.

Pym stops and looks at it, surprised. She didn’t tell anyone she was out of water. But water has been quietly appearing when she needs it ever since—ever since she shoved a bucket at Lancelot and told him to go fill it. She looks up to see Lancelot silently making his way out of the room he’s supposed to be sleeping in to return to Squirrel and the little ones. He looks up and seems surprised to see her standing there. Which is troubling in itself, Lancelot always seems to know where people are unless he’s distracted. And it takes a lot to distract him. He hesitates for a moment before coming over, stopping well away of her. Pym steps aside to let him into the room and after a moment he moves inside, though he doesn’t come in far. He closes the door behind him.

“I didn’t want to wake them,” she says, “but I wanted to thank you for bringing this. And all the other times—“ she trails off, “are you alright?” He looks at her and there’s something blank in his gaze. Like he’s looking through her, “let’s go to the other room,” she suggests.

He pushes open the door and she follows him out. He glances at the one that leads to the main room and then leads her to the one he’s supposed to share with Arthur. She steps inside and turns around, watching as he closes the door. His back is to her. For a moment she wonders if she’s lost the right to ask about things. That would assume she had the right at all in the first place. But their footing is more equal and she finds herself less sure. It’s a hopeless feeling. She had thought she escaped the confusion, only to find herself in an even more complicated situation. She opens her mouth and closes it when she realizes she’s not sure she has the words to describe it. If those words even exist. She can just do what a healer should and listen.

“I was here as a boy,” he says simply, “we stopped here after the crossing.”

“You said—“

“I didn’t remember,” he replies, turning to face her. The blank look is gone. In its place is more emotion than Pym remembers being able to feel, “once I smelled Tristain in this place it came back.”

Pym knows that smell is powerfully connected to memory. The smell of another Ash Folk seems to dig into things that Lancelot has pushed away. He is still profoundly sensitive to Fey smells, but she’s noticed others seem to affect him as well. The spices the Raiders have, if they’ve been traveling nonstop, the oil they use—she imagines he pushed everything towards something he thought he would never smell again. No-one could have predicted there would be more Ash Folk. He gives her a frustrated look.

“They put me in that room both times.”

She can hear the hoarseness in his voice and that it’s something bad. But she’s unsure of why. All of it seems terrible to her. Nothing he describes about the church seems alright. She looks at him as he searches her face, his frustration deepening. Not with her, she has to remind herself, though she wouldn’t fault him if it was. Her mouth is still dry and when she speaks her voice is much more like his than she is expecting.

“Why is that troubling?” She asks. He looks away, “Lancelot—“ he tenses at his own name. Pym feels the waters churn under the surface. Her heart throbs in warning but she lifts her foot, just a small bit. Not enough to break the ice, she’s careful with her movements. But enough to take a half step closer, “why?”

“Brother Salt made us switch rooms,” he says quietly, “they laughed when they did.”

Being upset about something like that, in the face of all that he and his Brothers did, is almost comical. Laughing over putting someone in a room. But she remembers the blank look, like the one he wore on the ship. It’s fear. She doubts he showed anything of the sort when they put him in there when he was a loyal servant. But they would have remembered the boy who did show fear. She’s used to the Paladins doing horrible things to her kind, but they are sweeping, big horrors. They want death. Putting someone in a room like that, knowing how they were the last time they were there, laughing about it—that’s a cruelty that has nothing to do with a divine mission. 

Even in his frustration she realizes that his eyes keep moving to her. She didn’t realize his hesitation to tell her things had eased until it came back. There seems to be a void opening under her feet and she thinks she can hear the ice begin to crack. Suddenly she feels as though she’s in two places at once.

In the church and on the beach.

The ice is cracking even though there’s no ice. It’s melting with his green fire. She can just see the blue of Nimue’s gown out of the corner of her eye. The ice is going to crack and this time it will be both of them who are swallowed by the waters. Though her death won’t be nearly as useful. There’s no sword she can offer, no druid blood or great power. She will just die and either the church will be right or she will be across the waters in Avalon.

“Pym.”

The sound of her name drags her back, even if the smell of fire and musk is the same. There’s more incense. It’s not just on his clothes it’s everywhere. She blinks and realizes she’s not on the beach. She’s in the church. There’s no green fire. The ice is still there. But the smell is the same.

Scent is tied to memory.

“Sorry, I—“ she steps back and presses her hand to her forehead. It’s cool from the waterskin, “I don’t know came over me,” she shakes her head in an effort to clear it and sees Lancelot pull his hand back, “I’m so sorry.”

He nods.

“What did it feel like?”he asks. She presses her lips together and he looks at her silently. The frustration about his own situation is still there, but there’s concern too, “Pym—“

“Don’t,” she cuts in quickly, “I can’t. I’m not ready.”

“Alright.”

She looks at him in surprise. She hasn’t said anything so directly about what’s happening to her. But he looks at her steadily. Not the prying looks that the others give or the sad ones or the pitying ones. He doesn’t move for the door and for the first time, the urge to run is not overwhelming. It’s not pleasant to stand there, but it is bearable. Like the night she came back to the tent. It’s heartbreaking that it doesn’t feel as it should, but nothing feels as it should. She works her hand around the top of the waterskin and takes a drink. It’s cold and jarring, but that helps. It banishes the last vestiges of the beach from behind her eyes.

“Cruel,” she says. He looks at her curiously, “what they did, putting you in that room to laugh, that was cruel,” she says, “nothing you told me sounds like that is something God would want, so it’s just cruelty. That’s what I was trying to say.”

She takes another drink of water and tries to think if she’s said so many words together recently. It’s been weeks, at the very least. Though she’s sure the last time she said so much was with him. She offers him the waterskin but he shakes his head. She re-caps it and looks at him, waiting for the same awkwardness to fester. But it doesn’t appear, not like it has. Maybe she’s more stubborn than she thought.

“Were you going to sleep in here?” She asks. He shakes his head, “out there?”

“I wasn’t planning on sleeping,” he says.

There was a time when she would have said otherwise but the desire to stay awake is one she understands very well now. Even as the book tells her that sleep is important. She doesn’t think she’s capable of that healing kind of sleep. Not at the moment anyway.

“I have herbs I need to bundle to dry,” she says, “instead of sleeping. Do you want to help?”

He considers for a moment and then nods.

“I’ll be right back.”

She goes and collects the twine and the plants. She sits on the floor and Lancelot joins her after a moment. She’s been collecting things based on the pictures and drawings, since there’s no herb stash anymore. She hopes she’s gotten at least some of it right. She doesn’t ask Lancelot if he’s able to handle things like this when he’s upset. But she holds her breath as he picks up the first few herbs. Nothing happens.

“Your control is better,” she says.

“Practice,” he says.

She nods and sets about cutting the twine as he sorts the bundles and they lapse into silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Your comments/kudos/tumblr messages are so wonderful and help me stay focused. I also got asked a great question about the prayer beads Nimue gives Pym, so if anyone wants more info on that I have the answer here: [Beads](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/post/628981728879525888/hi-not-to-disturb-but-can-you-describe-further). Please let me know your thoughts on the chapter! Onwards!


	45. Tinder: Part 3

“You didn’t come back last night,” Squirrel says as Lancelot observes him pushing his body up and down, “you said you were.”

“I’m sorry,” he says as Squirrel finishes his set and gets to his feet, “Pym needed help.”

Squirrel frowns.

“I could have helped,” he says.

Lancelot nods and motions him over, handing him the waterskin. Squirrel takes a drink but doesn’t immediately run off to do another set. Pym retreating has been hard on him, though he seems old enough to understand what she’s doing. Lancelot understands as well. Things like this are something he has less of a grasp on than even Squirrel. In the world he’s spent most of his life, death is a cause for celebration. This life is meant to be in service for the next. Death means you have been called to Heaven. It is supposed to be glorious, not a cause for sadness.

“She doesn’t want to burden you,” he says.

“Because I’m not big enough,” Squirrel parrots back, “I’m stronger though.”

“You are,” Lancelot agrees, “now go do another set.”

Squirrel nods and steps back a few paces. He drops and does another set of exercises. It seems unfair that the two of them will have this awkwardness. That they cannot help each other. At the same time, he understands that Squirrel is still young. And Pym needs the company of a peer. Or the closest thing that she has to it here. Lancelot knows that Gawain is the best suited, he’s known her the longest, but he remembers Nimue’s warning. Kaze has her hands full with advising Guinevere and helping the other little ones. Which leaves him. And though he feels completely unprepared for it, he imagines that Pym felt something very similar when he was dropped on her.

“Done!” Squirrel announces, flexing his wrists, “can we go see Pym now?”

“Let me speak to her,” he says. Squirrel looks down, “we’ll speak to her,” Lancelot corrects, “if she looks like she doesn’t want to talk, we’ll go.”

Squirrel seems to find that idea much better. Lancelot has spent his life caught between warring goals, but they worked somewhat in harmony. Being caught between his vows as Squirrel’s Squire and friendship is a more difficult place than he anticipated. There are no vows with friendship, no rules that he has been taught. He understands loyalty but all of these things seem to be in conflict.

His steps pause as he looks up at the church’s facade.

“What’s wrong?” Squirrel asks.

“It’s strange being here,” Lancelot says.

“I bet you never thought you’d be here with a bunch of Fey.”

Lancelot nods as they move into the back. When he knocks on the door, it’s not Pym who greets him but Arthur. He looks half asleep, he probably was. But he manages to smile as he looks between them.

“We switched rooms,” he says, “Pym said something about things being better in there.”

“Maybe I should do watch,” Squirrel says.

“Soon,” Arthur assures him.

Lancelot steers Squirrel away from the door so Arthur can rest and knocks on the other. Pym opens it. Everything has been moved and the herbs they strung together last night are tied up to dry faster. The memories are less sharp as he smells the herbs instead of the incense. But the memories are not as bad in this room.

“Arthur said you moved rooms,” Squirrel says.

“Yes,” she says and glances at him.

“I was in the other room when I stayed here last,” Lancelot explains briefly.

“Oh,” Squirrel says.

“And the time before that,” he adds.

Squirrel looks back at him sharply. Far too understanding for a boy of his age. Details are not important, Squirrel knows enough to understand that it is something unpleasant. If he’s curious about more, this is not the time. Their situation is complicated enough without him putting more thoughts into the boy’s head of his past. He knows that terrible things happened, those things don’t excuse what Lancelot has done.

“I wouldn’t want to be in that room either,” he says.

“So I just moved everything over,” Pym says, “it should do for now.”

“Are you feeling better this morning? Lancelot said he spent the night in here.”

Pym looks almost comically surprised and Lancelot cringes at the way Squirrel chooses to phrase things. It’s a reminder that he is, well, a child. No matter how old he acts or how much life has forced him to grow up in some ways, in many more he is still a child. Lancelot knows that is a sign that something has been done right. That not everything has been taken from at least one Fey.

“I do feel better,” Pym says, recovering as much as she can.

“You should come sleep out there with the rest of us,” Squirrel says, “I saved you a place.”

“Thank you,” Pym says, the last vestiges of surprise leaving her face, “does it smell right?” She asks Squirrel.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Lancelot watches as his features relax. They can’t do what he can, but he imagines that the smell of the place Pym is trying to replicate would be a good way to judge if she’s doing this right.

“It smells fresher,” Squirrel says, “but very close.”

“Good,” she says, relaxing slightly, “it’ll get there, they just need to dry out.”

“Why don’t we use Lancelot’s Fire?” They both look at him, “Nimue used to come back smelling like smoke when they’d get new herbs. Remember?”

Lancelot braces for the sadness on Pym’s face but none comes. Instead she looks exasperated with herself for the first time in a while. It’s familiar. It’s—relieving. Even if it’s just there for a moment.

“Of course,” she says, “we can just use a regular fire. There’s no need for that.“

“We don’t want the smoke,” Squirrel cuts in. He straightens up and looks behind him, “Besides, it’ll be good practice.”

Lancelot looks at him and Squirrel returns the gaze. As the boy has gotten stronger, Lancelot’s honed his fire more. But it seems like a foolish thing to risk. He almost says as much but both of them look at him with trust. Squirrel believes he can do this and not burn down the church. In his guts he knows they aren’t wrong, but it’s not an idea he relishes. He looks at Pym who nods. This isn’t an idea he relishes, but if it is a risk she’s willing to take he can participate.

“We need stones,” he says. Pym gives him a curious look, “the Fire spreads without some kind of barrier.”

“What about these?” She says, reaching into the bag and pulling out a handful of pebbles.

“Those will do.”

She hands him the bag and he sets out a narrow oval underneath the bundles. The two trust him but he’s grateful when they both step back without him saying anything. He presses his fingertips to the stone at the far end of the oval and focuses. The Fire comes easier now, it’s more like a muscle he knows how to use. It still always starts at his palm but now he can wrap it around his fingers and direct it where he wishes. To a much higher degree anyway. He controls it as he lets it spread along the oval, pulling his hand back just before it reaches the corners. He still does not have a way to end the fire without his Faith.

But his Faith his shaken.

He half expects the prayer not to work but it does. It takes an extra moment, but the Fire vanishes from his fingertips. It’s a relief. The Fire on his fingertips goes out but the Fire contained in the stones continues to burn. It’s not a lot, it’s faint as well, he’s tried to mimic natural fire as much as he can. They both can look without it hurting their eyes. At least for a while. The little amount also keeps the room warmer but not oppressively hot. It will work for what needs to be done.

“Are you still connected to it?” Pym asks.

“No,” he says, “not until I touch it again.”

Pym walks over to the circle, looking at the faint green light thrown off by the flames. She kneels down and reaches a hand over the flames. When Squirrel comes closer, she doesn’t push him back. He realizes it’s the first time either of them have seen the Fire in a quiet moment like this. Even that day on the shore he wasn’t able to make it so others could look. It’s soft and contained. He thinks that’s why it doesn’t send Pym into a panic like so many other things. Even so she stands up quickly and steps back.

“Thank you,” she says, “this should be a great help,” he nods, “are stones the only thing that can be used as a barrier?”  
“I don’t know,” he admits, “Merlin said he knew a king who kept the Fire in a stone pit.”

“Did he know what kind of stones?’

“What are you thinking?” Squirrel asks.

“It seems foolish to carry around stones if there’s a more portable way to contain it,” she says, “I know the Raiders grind up things for the paste they use on their eyes.”

It’s not a terrible idea to come up with a better way to contain it. He isn’t sure if his half memories of seeing adult Ash Folk make the fire without containment are true or if he’s imagining things. Which is the most frustrating of all. His clearest memories that keep getting dragged up are always tied to the scent of Ash Folk and Church. They start after he was taken. The only memory he has before that seems to be on the beach and that one is completely useless for this. There isn’t a lick of Fire to be seen. Just those black stones and fog and smoke.

“Why are you carrying around stones?” Squirrel asks.

“If you heat them up and put them on sore places, they can help relax the muscles,” Pym says, “like a hot bath.”

Squirrel sighs and nods.

“I miss those.”

Lancelot glances at him. The shock of what has happened is slowly lessening and the weight is settling on those who have remained. People talk more freely about the things that they miss, the ones they have lost, how they wish to rebuild. Those things usually make it back to Guinevere one way or another. Lancelot has never been in a society where the will of anyone matters. He doesn’t know if it matters now, or if it will matter when all of this is done. But people keep talking and Guinevere has yet to demand they stop. Which is something she seems to have little issue doing with a host of other things.

“It’s strange what you miss,” Pym says. Squirrel looks at her, “I seem to remember you feeling very differently about bathing.”

“That’s just because I didn’t know I wouldn’t do it for months,” Squirrel objects.

“We’ll see when you start bathing regularly,” Pym says.

“We’ll see how you feel about hot baths when you get one,” Squirrel says.

Pym rolls her eyes and ruffles his longer hair which makes him squawk indignantly. Lancelot almost thinks nothing of it but the way Squirrel speaks about it catches his ear. Pym hasn’t been speaking of the things she misses, which he has always chalked up to the trauma of what happened with Nimue. But even before that, she made the decision to stay and not go to Avalon. She moved from the direction those who longed for the village went.

In all the things that have happened, somehow the idea of a hot bath seems to be the thing that Pym finds unbelievable.

“Did the church believe in hot baths?” Squirrel asks.

“No,” Lancelot says.

Squirrel nods like this makes perfect sense and Lancelot imagines it does. Only the highest among them had such luxuries. It’s an odd thing to find a common ground over. But hot baths being reserved for the most privileged is something that seems to transcend the differences between them.

“Seems you’ve got better control,” Guinevere observes from the doorway, “you can come on my ship.”

“I thought we were taking over land,” Squirrel says, confused.

“We are,” Guinevere says, not turning around as she goes for the main room.

Pym gives him the barest smile, but he can see the relief. It’s one less thing to be worried about and there’s more than enough to deal with right now. Another shadow falls in the door and they both look as Merlin observes the mess there. He looks as he has always looked since Nimue sank below the water and he tried to follow her. Though now the sword is in Arthur’s possession. Merlin takes in the sight of everything and something hungry appears in his eyes as he looks at the fire.

“Am I disturbing you?” He inquires. Lancelot immediately doesn’t trust the politeness and almost says yes, but Pym shakes her head, “good. I need your help.”

“What for?” Squirrel asks.

Lancelot settles a hand on his shoulder as Merlin leans down. He relaxes his fingers, preparing to clap his hand over the boy’s mouth.

Merlin is well within spitting distance.

“Sometimes when you drink too much, you need help stopping,” he says.

“You drink a lot,” Squirrel observes.

“More than you know,” Merlin says and straightens up, “but if I’m to be of any use, I need your help,” his eyes go to the book, “I’ll translate the rest of it in return.”

“I didn’t ask for payment,” Pym says.

“I offer it regardless, you’d be a fool to turn it down,” Merlin says.

Pym straightens up and Lancelot looks at her feet. Her toes curl against the stones but she flattens them and picks up the book. Merlin begins to look frustrated at her silence, but then he glances at the Fey Fire and back at Lancelot. He returns the look easily. If the promise being burned by Fey Fire keeps him under control, Lancelot is willing to let him think that.

“Fine, I’ll help you,” Pym says, “we’ll need some of the herbs that are drying. We can do this later.”

Merlin looks momentarily disappointed but nods and turns to leave.

“Try not to drink until then,” Pym calls after him.

“I make no promises,” he retorts.

Pym watches him go and gathers herself together.

“Should we get breakfast?” She says, “I think today is going to be long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter. If you're enjoying my work or have any feedback, I would love to hear it! See you next chapter.


	46. Tinder: Part 4

Pym knots off the last of the tent and steps back.

The High Summoner’s book details a series of drinks that are supposed to detox various parts of the body, all of which can be helped by putting someone in a place where they can be subjected to a lot of steam. The fastest thing Pym can come up with is tent around a hole where they can put the pebbles and pour water over them to create steam. Lancelot moves silently, bringing the stones with him. Pym moves to needlessly check the knots.

“Are you sure?” He asks quietly.

Pym looks up as Lancelot piles the hot pebbles into the pit they’ve dug in the tent. She grips the book and nods. Steam is supposed to help. Though all of this is supposed to. The book is very clear that will must be there. She doesn’t know if Merlin wants to be sober more than he wants to be numb. She wishes that she didn’t understand the feeling. But the book is clear and she nods.

“I’m sure,” she says.

Lancelot nods and stands up.

“I’ll stay.”

“What?” She stares at him. He looks back at her calmly, but he is completely serious, “it’s not going to be pleasant,” she warns. He gives her a look, “right,” she says, remembering that things being unpleasant seem to be something Lancelot specializes in.

“Why are you going in?” He asks, “he can’t die.”

“He’s Nimue’s father,” she says, “and my patient,” he doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer, “I haven’t left you alone to heal,” she points out.

He still doesn’t seem thrilled but he nods.

“Then I’ll stay.”

She knows there’s a risk to Merlin in his current state. Much as she wants to believe her relationship with Nimue is worth something, she doesn’t know if that gives her anything in the way of protection with a Druid. Lancelot being there is a relief. She nods to his offer. Pym gathers her braid up and pins it off her neck. Stripping to her chemise seems to be the easiest way to sweat through only one garment during this insanity. She tugs her dress over her head and folds it besides the tent.

“Alright we’re ready for you,” she says, “and you may want to take some layers off,” she advises Lancelot.

Merlin staggers up and looks at the tent. He makes a noise of disgust and nods at both of them. Pym knows this is going to be unpleasant for all of them. Merlin is shirtless but he takes off his overrobe and adds it to the pile of her dress. Pym motions him into the tent and turns around to see Lancelot add his outer garments to the pile.

It’s been a while since she’s seen his scars.

His healing works on the fresh wounds, but not healed ones. His back is a mess of pale lines from infected and irritated whip marks. Most of them were put there by his own hand, but from his reaction to being in this place she wonders how many were put there by his Brothers. She frown as he turns around. She recognizes the first wound on his abdomen that she sewed together before discovering his healing but he wears other marks from that time.

“Shouldn’t those have healed?” she asks. He looks at her curiously and she motions to his ribs. He raises his arm and looks at the the starburst marks. Her frown deepens and she steps forward, taking his hand and looking at the marks that circle his wrist, “these look the same,” she says. “Did they hit you anywhere else?”

“My cheek and neck,” he says, “but only once.”

“The same person?”

“It was hard to tell with the masks,” he says and smiles briefly at her glare, “I don’t know.”

“Your face healed better,” she says, “Some of them must have had iron weapons.”

It would make sense as they are enemies, but she thinks it’s a wonder his entire body isn’t covered in the angry burns. She tries not to think of the upcoming battles and wonder at how many of them have the metal. How many know how to use it and target him. There are other scars that are ugly but healed over. None seem to be from iron. Which almost makes her feel better as she lets go of his wrist until he turns. She can’t quite stop the inhale and he stiffens.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, “that looks—painful,” she says.

“It was,” he replies and though his voice is soft, it has a tone in it that notes this scar is different from the others.

It carves along his shoulder from just behind his collar bone to armpit in a neat, deep line. It’s long healed but so deep it changes the profile of his shoulder. There’s another line that’s nearly as deep. It carves up his outer arm and bisects the joint before reappearing on top of his shoulder. It’s surprising he can hold a sword at all.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she says.

“It’s nothing,” he dismisses quickly, “Merlin’s waiting for us.”

He ducks into the tent, effectively ending the conversation. Pym takes a deep breath, picks up the first of the brews and ducks inside. Lancelot settles himself against the side between her and Merlin, kneeling and tense. Merlin has himself draped out on the dirt like it’s a throne. Lancelot’s added fire to the rocks to keep them hot and the tent has taken on a pale green glow. Pym douses the stones with water and fills the tent with steam before handing Merlin the first thing he’s to drink.

“This is already unpleasant,” the Druid grumbles.

“It’s going to get worse,” Pym tells him.

“Well it’s good to know you have the bedside manner of every High Summoner I’ve met,” he says, curling his lip at the bitter concoction.

“I’m not the High Summoner,” Pym corrects, sitting back.

“What are you then?” Merlin asks.

“Just Pym,” she says.

Merlin looks at her for a moment and then laughs. Not cruelly, though Pym braces herself for that. It may be the first time she’s heard him laugh with no cruelty in it. Through the steam she sees Lancelot’s eyes narrow at the line of questioning and his weight shift slightly.

“So why are you here and not passing me these terrible things through the entrance?” Merlin asks.

“Because you’re my patient.”

“No no,” he says, taking a drink and wincing as he draws himself up, “that’s not all of it,” he shifts into a seated position, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees, “that’s not all of it,” he repeats.

Pym feels incredibly foolish, the moment he says the words she knows he’s right. That’s not all of it. The book says the will must be there and she’s not sure if she has it. Not anymore. She’s always been determined but lately all she’s felt is afraid. To the point where it’s stopped her. Paralyzed her. Worse, it’s done it in her own head. She’s always known right from wrong in there. Or at the very least, she’s always been willing to face things in there.

“Enough,” Lancelot cuts in.

  
“Calm down, Ash Man,” Merlin says. Lancelot glares at him, “let her answer.”

He looks over at her and then back at Merlin.

“We’re here to make sure you live, not answer questions,” he says.

“She’s here to make sure I live. You’re here for some other reason,” he winces at the bitterness as he finishes the cup and Pym gives him the next drought, “you could both distract me from my pain.”

“Which one?” Lancelot asks and Merlin laughs. Lancelot doesn’t return the gesture.

“You’re a lot funnier than I would have thought. I can see why you didn’t talk with the Paladins. They never had a sense of humor,” he shifts his weight and looks at them both through the steam.

“I want to know I can still be—“ she fumbles for the right word, “useful,” Pym blurts out, “keeping you alive is better than just being a coward.”

“A coward’s not a bad thing to be,” Merlin counters, “being a coward could keep you alive,” Pym looks down at her hands, feeling heat in her cheeks that has nothing to do with the steam, “you disagree?”

“I don’t want to just be alive,” she says finally.

Merlin leans forward with a hungry look on his face. One a lot closer to what Lancelot used to wear when she would use her power in the early days. On his face it’s even more terrifying.

“She said you wanted more for yourself,” he says. He doesn’t need to specify, “but that you’d never admit it,” he goes to lean forward more but Lancelot’s hand moves, “you didn’t have many prospects—“ he waves his hand around, “not that such stupid things matter.”

Now it is truly embarrassing. It makes sense that humiliation, worry, all of it would be the things she would feel first. She’s not even entirely sure the ice is still there or if it’s vanished in the steam. Like the steam has gone through her lungs and into her soul. Maybe it has. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, she tells herself. None of these stupid things actually matter any more. She doesn’t need an ancient Druid to tell her that. She knew it was ridiculous at the time. Lancelot doesn’t seem to understand or maybe he simply doesn’t care.

“Enough questions,” Lancelot cuts in, “we’re here to deal with your drinking and your grief.”

“Our grief is the same,” he says leaning back, “but me getting the alcohol out of my system will be a lot easier than getting her to not be shut down.”

“That isn’t your concern,” Lancelot says.

“He’s right,” Pym says. Lancelot turns to her in surprise, “but we can get Merlin detoxed so we can start there.”

She adds more water to the stones and lets steam fill up the tent.

“Somehow you’re the sanest one here, Ash Man,” Merlin says through the fog, “that’s really saying something.”

“Be quiet,” Lancelot says.

Pym closes her eyes and focuses on pulling the heavy air through her lungs.

It feels like days, not hours, when she emerges from the tent. The linen is sticky against her skin and her hair is damp with sweat. Lancelot and Merlin are both shiny with perspiration. Merlin looks ashen faced. Only Lancelot seems unaffected by the hours they’ve spent breathing in steam. But his hands tremble slightly as they take long drinks of water to replace what they’ve lost.

“I need—“ Merlin starts.

“Do not say a drink,” Pym cuts in.

“To piss,” he says, waving her off and staggering off.

Pym exhales and goes over to their clothes, making sure the book is still there and safe. The air is cool against her skin and the discomfort seems to burrow through the fog she’s been in. Naming the problem seems to do something. She can’t feel the ice cracking, but it’s as if she’s swept a hand over the frost. She can feel things moving underneath.

“Are we going again?” Lancelot asks.

“Yes,” Pym says, “as soon as Merlin gets back,” Lancelot nods and she shakes her head, “I’m sorry, you don’t have to go back in there.”

“I’m fine,” he says.

“I don’t want you uncomfortable because I need to be in there,” she elaborates. 

“Do you want me to stay out?” He asks, “so you can speak to him?”  
  
“No,” Pym says instantly.

Speaking to Merlin is the last thing she wants to do. The Druid staggers up, looks between them, sighs and goes into the tent with minimal snark. Lancelot gives her a long look and then follows him in. Pym wishes to be anywhere else. Then she tightens the knot in her hair and follows them both into the steam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to answer a question from last time. So the thing about them switching rooms is the first time they were in the church (when Lancelot was a boy and newly taken) Lancelot was in one room where he was treated badly. The second time (when Lancelot was an adult) brother Salt was in that room and then made them switch to mentally hurt Lancelot. However, I want to stress that Lancelot is a very unreliable narrator in these circumstances because he's repressed a lot of things. And he's not a good communicator about it. So take everything with a grain of salt.
> 
> Feedback is love and your comments/kudos/tumblr messages keep me focused on the story. I know it's long but I'm doing my best to keep it interesting. So please let me know your thoughts and I will see you in the next chapter.


	47. Tinder: Part 5

Lancelot refuses to indulge the memories.

He’s good at keeping himself in the moment, it’s a skill he’s been subconsciously doing for most of his life. Memories are better left in the past. There is no use in remembering things that cannot help. The only memories he’s relied on are the ones in his muscles. Or they were, for so long. Gawain was not the first to drag them up, but the combination was enough to undo all of Brother Salt’s work. He’s almost sad that he killed him before he could see the extent of the change.

The steam threatens to send him to a place he cannot go.

It’s familiar, the weight of it in his lungs. The way it curls in the air as more water gets added to the rocks. The Fire doesn’t help. But he can push all of that aside. The thing that he struggles against the most is the feel of the sweat on his scalp. His hair has not grown in, not fully. But the wide patch of skin is now dusted in hair. The scar is two smaller ones, both easily hidden. Losing the tonsure is not a bad thing, he’s made whatever peace he can with it. But sitting there and feeling sweat and hair on his entire scalp along with all the other factors makes it difficult to stay in the present. But he’s done harder things. And at the moment he is very aware of why it is important to be focused.

“Ash Man,” Merlin says, “will you kill me?”

“No,” he refuses, ignoring the temptation the request poses. Merlin sighs, “I doubt I could,” Lancelot adds.

“You could with your Fire,” Merlin says, something eager in his voice. Lancelot opens his mouth to refute the offer but Merlin’s speaking again, “have you killed anyone with it? Not by blowing up trees or melting ice, just with the Fire itself?”

“No.”

“Have you killed anyone at all, recently?”

“No.”

“Lost the taste for it?”

“I never had it,” he says.

Merlin looks surprised and he sees Pym shift her weight. Frustration settles in him as the sweat trickles down his neck and runs the divot of the scar on his shoulder. As it always does. It reminds him to focus on the present, to not get lost in the past. Even admitting he does not have the taste for killing everyone thinks he does comes dangerously close to a time he does not want to think about. Especially not with Merlin. He can feel the Druid staring at him, even through the steam.

“You’ve killed a lot—“

“I know,” he snaps.

“Merlin, enough,” Pym cuts in, hearing the tone in his voice.

Lancelot breathes deeply and focuses himself.

Merlin snorts.

“Just because you’re grateful he saved you from whatever that village had planned for you doesn’t mean you have to defend him,” Merlin points out.

“He did not save me,” Pym snaps.

“But you’re still grateful,” Merlin points out.

“Enough. Get out,” Lancelot says and gets to his feet, hooking a hand under the Druid’s arm and pulling him out of the tent. Merlin pulls his arm free and Lancelot thinks that only his knowledge of what Fey Fire can do keeps it from being a fight. Lancelot doesn’t waste the opportunity, “go. Come back when you’re under control.”

“I haven’t—“

“Go,” he repeats, unwilling to hear anything else from the Druid.

He turns and sees that she isn’t with him. He does not want to go back into the tent, but he isn’t here for his own comfort. So he parts the cloth and steps back into the steam. Pym is staring at the stones, but not in a panicked way. When he enters she looks up at him with recognition in her eyes. Recognition and guilt. He lowers himself back into his spot. The tent walls are thin, he knows she’s heard what was said outside.

“I’m not grateful you did what you did,” she says.

“I know.”

“But I didn’t want to be there without Nimue,” she admits, “I was so pleased when that boat left, even though it meant she was there when you arrived,” she presses her hands to her lips like she’s said something horrible, “she could have been far away living her life.”

He doesn’t point out that Pym had nothing to do with them being there. Pym knows that. Even in the mess of her grief she’s not a fool. He has treated her differently, but not like that.

“Did Nimue know you were unhappy?”

“I wasn’t—“ she starts and then cuts herself off, lower her head, “no,” she says finally, “I didn’t want to burden her,” she adds, “and I didn’t know at the time. I didn’t know until I came back with everyone.”

“I though your guilt was because you survived.”

She looks at him quickly, clearly surprised. He isn’t sure why it didn’t occur to her that other would think about why she was acting the way she was. If she truly thought she hid it well by pulling away. She’s surrounded by people who care about her, even if they do not know her as well as those who are gone. It’s only a matter of time. Time they have not had together yet, though the months they’ve spent feel longer than they should. Yet there are moments when it feels like no time has passed and this is how things have always been. As though they were all always meant to be together.

“I didn’t know I had so much,” she admits, “I thought I was just afraid to grieve.”

“The two are connected.”

She looks up at him through the steam and shakes her head.

“I can’t believe you’re explaining my emotions to me,” she says, “when we first met I thought you didn’t have any.”

He longs for more steam or the confines of his cowl. Of all the things he did to keep his face from being seen and his heart from being known. But he has neither so he dips his head.

“That was intentional.”

The tent flaps peel open and they both look at Merlin. He’s somewhat ashen faced, his veins have turned silvery. He doesn’t seem troubled by that and Lancelot accepts it’s probably his body healing himself. He walks over to his spot and sits before hunching over, as if his entrance has taken all the strength he has at the moment. Lancelot tenses, prepared for pull him out of the tent. Helping him is something Pym takes seriously but Lancelot doesn’t plan on sitting around and listening to him spew vitriol. Not when it’s directed at the person trying to help him.

“I think we can help each other,” he says. Pym’s eyebrows raise up, “we’re all trying to leave our past behind in one way or another. I drink. You’ve shut down,” he says motioning at Pym, “and you, you’re still more blade than you are a man—“

He’s on his feet before he has time to think the motion through. He doesn’t know how far Merlin has made it into his head and he has no intention of finding out. Killing for his own emotions has never been something he’s done, but harming people is. Merlin’s words about Fey Fire echo in his head as he reaches for it. On the ground, the Druid looks up at him in surprise but also with rabid hope, like Lancelot might actually pull off the thing he’s praying for.

The tent crashes down.

The cold air rushes in but Lancelot ignores the change in sensation, pushing the fabric out of the way and moving towards Merlin. Merlin hasn’t moved because Merlin wants to die. As the blood pounds through his ears, Lancelot thinks that he would be fine granting that wish. No matter how useful Merlin could be to Guinevere getting back her kingdom. Nothing is worth the headache this man causes. The vitriol he spews. They’re all better off if he’s gone. Actually gone, not gone like what Nimue has become.

Water dumps across his face and a moment later, pain erupts in his shin and then across the back of his skull.

He catches the bucket on the third swing.

Squirrel balks on the other end of the rope, but he grips it harder and sets his feet. Lancelot remembers the tent and the Fire. But when he turns he sees it’s still tied up on the other sides. He can smell Pym’s scent from her use of magic. There’s no magic on Squirrel, just determination. Lancelot lets go of the bucket and instead of toppling forward, Squirrel adjusts his feet and yanks it back, preparing for another blow.

“Well that’s infuriating,” Merlin remarks.

“Shut up,” Lancelot warns at the same time the words come from Squirrel’s mouth.

Merlin raises an eyebrow and looks between them.

“I’m starting to see the—“

“Please be quiet,” Pym cuts all three of them off as she comes out from the tent. She softens at Squirrel, “thank you,” she says to him. He puffs up before she turns to the two of them, “this is ridiculous,” she says, “I want to hear your idea,” she tells Merlin, “after you apologize.”

Merlin looks at her.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not to me,” Pym says, “to him. I’ve said horrible things to him and nothing did what you just said,” she continues, “my brain is not the part of me that’s shut down” she adds, “you did that on purpose.”

“Yes,” Merlin says finally, “but not the purpose you think,” he adds, getting to his feet, “though that would have been a desirable outcome.”

Pym folds her arms and stares him down. Merlin looks back at her as Lancelot pulls back his anger. None of them have any business in staring down Merlin like this. It’s been months since he’s seen it, but Lancelot is aware that Pym has a talent for starring down things and people she shouldn’t. And as usually seems to be the case, Merlin holds her gaze for a moment longer and then sighs, looking first at the heavens and then at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“How did you know?” Lancelot asks flatly, glancing at him for any signs of magic.

“I overheard you and that Paladin one night,” Merlin says, “you all sleep in tents,” he looks at Squirrel, “you look like you know how thin they are,” Squirrel nods, “so no magic if that’s what you were worried about.”

Whether or not Merlin has any magic is something none of them are certain of. Not even Merlin himself, as far as Lancelot can tell. His magic was tied to the Sword and despite having reclaimed it, the blade went to Nimue who gave it to Arthur. It’s not really Merlin’s anymore. Lancelot realizes that it is a simple answer, but it doesn’t change the affect of Merlin’s words. He can still feel his pulse. Words are harder to focus on. Focusing on the water dripping down his scars is not a good idea and the two solid whacks from the bucket are not painful enough to even matter.

So he focuses instead on Pym’s scent.

She exists very firmly in the present, despite the distance between them and her retreat in the wake of Nimue’s death. She and Squirrel have been there for every calculation he’s made in the past few months. Or their scent has. But having just used her magic, Pym’s is the one that’s more potent. The more time he spends around them the more he’s able to recognize the small details that make up the scent of each individual. Right now he doesn’t pick it apart, he just focuses on the thing that grounds him to the present.

“Did I hurt your head?” Squirrel asks, dragging him even further out of his thoughts.

“No,” He assures him.

“Because I really just didn’t want you to do something you might regret,” he explains.

Lancelot nods his thanks.

“Your balance is better,” he says.

“I have a good foundation,” Squirrel says.

Lancelot gives the barest approximation of a smile. But Squirrel catches onto what the gesture is trying to be. The situation is miserable but he feels proud of what Squirrel did. He’d still be outmatched in a fight, but actually swinging a makeshift weapon and getting a few solid hits in is progress. Even if just a little. Pym stands in front of him and gets his attention. She looks far more direct than he’s seen her in some time. Like she’s more in her element.

“Merlin wants us all to go in and talk,” she says, “are you comfortable with that?”

“Let’s go,” he says.

“No,” Pym stops him, “I asked if you were comfortable with it. Do you want to go in there and talk?” She asks, “clearly it’s easy to attack someone from outside the tent so you don’t have to.”

Lancelot looks at her. He does not want to go into the tent. He doesn’t want to hear what else Merlin has overheard. He doesn’t want Father’s words twisted and thrown back at him. Not by Merlin. He thinks of the way Pym looked at the scar on his shoulder. He’s not sure he wants anything to come from Merlin and not from his own lips. But he looks at the determination painted on her and knows that she doesn’t want to be in there either. He looks at the fallen tent and thinks of the way he’s felt about this place as the memories come to him.

“I know,” he says and looks back at her, “let’s go.”

Pym opens and closes her mouth and then nods, touching the ropes of the tent again. Lancelot takes a deep breath of the cool air, tinged with her scent as she does her magic and looks at Squirrel.

“I know I know,” he says, filling the bucket back up with water, “I’m going. I was just coming to check on you.”

“Thank you,” Lancelot says.

“We’ll tell you what happens,” Pym promises, Lancelot nods.

Squirrel looks less than thrilled but he nods.

“Go tell Kaze about the bucket,” Lancelot tells him.

That seems to cheer him up and he happily goes off. Sensing his theatrics are not welcome, Merlin slips into the tent again and adds water to the stones. Pym takes a deep breath.

“You don’t have to do it either,” Lancelot says.

“I do,” Pym counters, “I can’t keep doing this,” she shakes her head, “but I’m glad I’m not alone.”

She ducks into the tent.

Lancelot hesitates for a moment before he follows so she won’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! I promise we are still heading into the romance/payoff stuff. This is not just filler. But I hope it's not too agonizing, I just wanted to assure you that it's part of the plan. Anyway please let me know your thoughts! Your comments/kudos/tumblr messages mean the world to me. Onwards!


	48. Tinder: Part 6

Pym fights the guilt.

She’s spent her life friends with people who are powerful. Who have bigger things to worry about than a simple girl from the village with nothing to her name. She’s learned that her needs are unimportant in the face of what they must do. She glances over at Lancelot and fights the urge to ask him one more time if he wants to go. Maybe he too recognizes that they cannot keep going like this. Her own fog is a new thing but she doubts Lancelot has thought of himself as a person in a very, very long time. And Merlin—she doesn’t even know where to start with Merlin.

“Drink this,” she says, handing him the next cup.

He takes a whiff.

“I recognize that,” he mutters and looks at her, “Did Lenore teach you?” Pym shakes her head, “Nimue,” he says.

“No,” Pym corrects, “that’s for the High Summoner. I just followed the instructions. Nimue kept her mother’s secrets.”

“For all the trust that built,” Merlin grumbles.

Pym cocks her head at him, an idea forming in her head. She’s never had a great deal of money or things truly worth trading, but she’s learned to recognize what people want. Whether or not Merlin wants to get better or be of she is anyone’s guess. He wants to help, she imagines Nimue said he must. But more than that, he wants to know about his child. Pym had years with Nimue, more time than anyone currently walking this earth. Merlin wants to know about her. Pym realizes that for once she doesn’t have to be particularly smart or clever. She actually has what he wants in a very simple, obvious way.

The rush of that is almost enough to outweigh her terror.

She forces herself forward. She cannot spend her life afraid of her own head, she’ll be useless if she does. If Lancelot can stare down his demons and choke out their names, she can at least try to do the same. The only thing she fears more than her grief is adding more regret to it.

Or having to face it alone.

“Why are you helping now?” Pym asks.

“The same reason you’re willing to accept it now,” Merlin says, “grieving takes time. It’s easier not to feel. But the longer you do the harder it is to come back from that. If you come back at all.”

Pym fists her hands in her shift and does her best not to look over at Lancelot. Though his is the first face she thinks about. She doesn’t feel good about her behavior, but she hasn’t pushed him. She’s retreated. It’s not nice but it’s better than the alternative. She knows she pushed him initially. When Squirrel more or less deposited him in her life and refused to move until he was accepted. But pushing him out of true anger and grief isn’t something she has ever wanted to do. The day has been an exercise in how terrible it is. It’s erased her doubts about struggling with the Fey’s belief they are all brothers. It’s shown her the other side and she doesn’t know how anyone has the stomach for it.

She’s grateful to have him sitting there.

“I know,” she says, “Nimue and her mother did trust each other. They were close.”

Merlin leans back with an appreciative nod, as if he’s recognizing what is going on. Pym has no intention of telling him important things, those aren’t what he’s after. He wants to know the minutia. She’s the only one who truly does.

“And what about you, Ash Man?” Merlin asks, “did you come just to protect the fair lady?”

Pym snorts. They both look at her. She’s been called many things over the past few months but ‘fair lady’ is by fair the most laughable. It makes her think of Nimue, of the Kings and Queens she hears stories about. Even the most brash of stall keepers wouldn’t have called her that.

“He’s here to protect me, but I’m hardly a lady,” she says.

“You’re going to have to get used to titles,” Merlin says, “Just Pym,” Pym ignores the shiver that makes her feel, “well?”

Lancelot flattens his palms against his thighs and shifts his weight. Being put on the spot is not his forte. Even now that he’s more widely accepted by their traveling group. He’s not used to being asked for his words or having them mean something. Not unless they involve tracking or fighting. Pym thinks about Merlin’s words. More blade than man. It makes sense, you don’t take a sword out to ask how it’s doing. Aside from a few uses, it’s meant to stay put away.

“I’ve been remembering more,” he says finally, “it cripples me.”

“As memories can,” Merlin says.

“No,” Lancelot says, “I panic. I can’t control it.”

Pym feels her mouth go dry. She’s been experiencing the same thing. Lancelot’s eyes dart over to her and there’s understanding in them. She knows she hasn’t been hiding it well. But she’s seen Lancelot around others and he’s seemed alright. Though it would make sense that he would hide them better than her.

“Why are you afraid of your memories?” Merlin asks.

She sees Lancelot tense as he looks into the fire. Merlin’s eyes narrow and he cranes his neck, looking at Lancelot’s back.

“Or is it the remembering itself?”

Lancelot stares ahead as though lost in the Fire. Pym decides that now is not the time to be afraid and shifts the way she’s sitting. The movement is small but Lancelot’s eyes are instantly on her.

“Why are you afraid?” She asks, making sure there’s no judgement in her voice. 

“It was important that I didn’t remember,” Lancelot says.

Merlin catches her eye and jerks his head towards Lancelot’s back. Pym wants to tell him to stop whatever it is he thinks he’s doing. But Lancelot sees him and lets out a long breath before he leans forward. Pym isn’t sure if she’s supposed to look. When Lancelot doesn’t want to speak on something he’s good at communicating it. Even without words. His eyes dart towards her and she realizes that he does mean for her to look. It’s hard to see in the steam but perhaps that is also the point. She thinks that maybe Lancelot doesn’t have the words.

She’s seen his back before, but in a much quicker glance. Her focus was on the infected wounds that crossed his back. Then it was on his healing ability. Studying his skin was never something she did. The infected flog marks that have healed are more than she can count. It reminds her of spider’s web or the silk cocoons she sees sometimes at the market. Like it’s not skin. It’s not how Tristain’s back looks. It takes her eyes a moment to get past those scars.

The first she sees is that the line on his shoulder is much, much longer. It carves down his shoulder blade, breaks at the curve of his spine and then continues almost to his right hip. The webbing the scars give his skin changes at his lower back. It becomes finer and the straight lines become warped and molted. Burning, her mind supplies. The deep gouge on his left collarbone also extends farther, almost over his shoulder. It bisects another deep gouge. Along the left side of his spine there’s a still raised line, too sharp and straight and perpendicular to his spine to have been put there himself. There are several other marks but they are deeper and fainter whip marks, too broad and precise for him to have done them himself.

Of all the scars, those are the faintest and the most warped.

He’s grown since he’s gotten them.

Pym thought it was cruel what he said about Brother Salt making them switch rooms to see how he reacted to such a familiar place. But that’s a cruelty she understands. The cruelty on his skin is something else entirely. She remembers Lancelot saying he had to judge what marks to heal. She can’t imagine being a boy and having to make those calls. If he was even capable of such a thing. The scar that cuts across his back from his left flank to his right armpit should have killed him. It doesn’t take much to draw the conclusion that the people he swore his life to were the ones to put it there.

She’s seen swords being forged. She knows the work it takes. But she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to look at one the same.

Lancelot was right not to speak. She doesn’t know if anyone has the words for what she is seeing. Not when she’s seen what he’s become. It’s not as simple as what she’s seeing excusing what he’s done. It doesn’t. It’s another piece of who he is. She can see how the man who she knows was responsible for the destruction of her home was also the boy who was split open by a sword. Neither changes the fact that she would choose him to be in the tent with her and Merlin over most people.

She hesitates only a moment before she settles her hand on his shoulder.

“Remember through that is hard,” Merlin says, “did it take months?”

“Years,” Lancelot says.

  
Merlin nods and Pym doesn’t know how anyone can be so calm about it. It’s years of torture mapped out along his skin before he even touched the flog himself. Years of his memories and beliefs being pushed away by pain inflicted by the people who used him. Pym has loathed the Paladins for a long time, she didn’t think she could want them dead more than she did a few moments ago.

“So what’s breaking through it? This place?”

“Tristain,” Lancelot says, “I hadn’t smelled another female Ash Folk since I left with the Paladins.”

“You must have thought you never would again,” Merlin says, “you put all your memories with something that you thought would never unlock,” he takes a drink, “probably your mother. Do you have any siblings?”

“I don’t remember,” Lancelot says.

“Not yet,” Merlin corrects.

The muscles under her palm tense and Pym sees his jaw tighten. The prospect of remembering is terrifying, even if the memories aren’t. Or maybe they are. The thought occurs to her and she’s almost afraid to ask.

“Do you remember how you got them?” She asks.

Lancelot looks up at her and the defeated look on his face tells her everything. Even before he shakes his head. Pym is afraid of confronting her emotions but she remembers what she’s afraid of. Lancelot doesn’t even remember that. It’s just memories and pain all tied up together. Pym looks down, wondering how on earth you navigate through something like that. Then her eyes catch the pebbles.

“I have an idea,” she says, “pinch your nose and finish that,” she orders Merlin. Then she takes the cup from him, “can you pull some of the pebbles out of the Fire? A dozen?”

Lancelot nods and reaches in, pulling out a handful of them. The green reaches for his fingers but he pulls them away. Pym motions him to put them nearby. He does and looks at her curiously.

“You need to lay on your stomach,” she says.

Lancelot looks at her for a moment before he obeys. Pym picks up the stone in the cup and maneuvers it onto his back, placing it along the straight line that runs parallel to his spine. She puts several stones down it and maneuvers the others onto the scars, taking care not to touch the longest one. Each stone makes him tense and his fingers curl, but not from pain.

“This is supposed to help,” she says.

“It’s not,” he replies.

“Just give it a minute,” she scolds.

“Your bedside manner needs some work,” Merlin comments dryly. Pym fills the cup and he pulls a face, “what do the emotions feel like?”

Pym realizes this is the longest stretch she’s gone without thinking about the ice and the emotions that churn underneath. She looks down at the mess of Lancelot’s back and the pebbles that dot it.

“It feels like they’ll never stop,” she says, “like I’ll drown in them.”

“And you’ll never emerge,” Merlin finishes, “you may not,” he says. Pym stares at him, “but you’ll learn how to breathe. But you’re always going to exist with the loss. It’s already a part of you.”

Pym feels the tight feeling in her throat and pushes it away. She knows that he’s right. She does exist without her home, without Nimue, she always has. From the moment that she saw her slip beneath the waves. But it’s been easier to pretend that she is still in that moment. She hates hearing it from someone else, but at the same time she’s been unable to tell it to herself. She still exists in the headspace of holding her breath, like Nimue took her last. And if she keeps doing it, the world doesn’t need to keep spinning. Time doesn’t need to move on. She doesn’t need to move on.

But she does.

“The High Summoner made the most bitter teas. Nimue used to give me honey so they wouldn’t taste so terrible.”

She sees Lancelot’s fingers dig into the dirt and she’s grateful not to watch the information affect Merlin, focusing instead on him. A stuttered breath escapes his lips.

“Lancelot?” She says, “are you—-“

“Don’t,” he says sharply as she reaches for the stones, “please.”

  
“Alright,” Pym says pulling her hand back. Merlin leans forward intently, “we’re here,” she says, touching the back of his hand, “just keep breathing.”

Lancelot gives the barest nod and expels the air from his lungs.

Pym mentally sends and apology to Nimue and forces herself to finally do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Thank you for your comments/kudos/tumblr messages. Please let me know what you think! Onwards!


	49. Tinder: Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a fair warning that this chapter is confusing and violent as we are in Lancelot’s head for most of it while he remembers some things that were tortured out of him when he was a kid.

He regrets it as soon as the stones touch his back.

He agrees but he wants to put a stop to it. He wants to say he changed his mind. That this is not where their focus should be. Changing his mind is something he has never excelled at. He cannot remember being a boy but he imagines he was not good at it even then. His stubbornness has always been an asset. It’s let him push past things that would have crippled lesser men. But the knot in his stomach makes him want to speak up. He pushes past it and does as instructed, trying not to jump as the stones settle on scars no hands have touched in years.

Swords are not afraid.

He hasn’t said the words to himself since he was a boy. A boy who was weak enough to need something to cling to, no matter if he deserved it or not. He doesn’t have the words for what happened back then. It’s lost in a haze of pain and fear. To Brother Salt’s chuckle. He remembers being asked things and answering them. But if his answers were too Fey, there was pain. Cleansing pain, the suffering was supposed to help. Or maybe it’s just that he heard those words in between bouts of it. He clung to them like he did his own mantras. They were the things that existed outside of the pain and the blood and the fear.

He remembers the fear.

It tastes like bile in the back of his throat. His mind circles the events around the scars. The stones relax muscles he’s not sure he’s relaxed in years. The heat from his own Fire penetrates deeper. He can feel the difference between the deeply scarred skin and the less scarred. All of it is in one way or another. All focused on his back. He tries to remember why. There was a reason. But all that comes to his head is the sick moment that was absent of pain. By that time it was a foreign sensation. He remembers the weight of the flog in his hand. Their words saying it was his turn to cleanse himself now.

He hears his own voice echoing their words.

“Lancelot?”

It takes a moment for the name to register as his. Only the best swords have names and where he is in his head, he hasn’t earned that yet. He still cringes at the flog, even as he slings it over his shoulder. A hand touches the back of his and he remembers how to speak in the present. Even if at the time he couldn’t remember how to form words after days of silence.

“Don’t,” he gets out. The hand stops, “please—“

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. If he wants to be removed or stay where he is. The hand pulls back and he lingers in the memory. He watches the pride in Father’s face as he uses the flog on himself. The congratulations the other Paladins give Father, even as they look at him with mistrust. Even Brother Salt looks proud. In his forgotten memories he sees Father turn to Brother Salt. He tells him his work is done, that he too must be cleansed. Brother Salt asks to join him in his penance. Calls him his Weeping Brother. Says that he wishes to pray with his brother and to look upon His Work and see His Grace. He agrees.

He watches Brother Salt sew his eyes shut.

He doesn’t try to stop him, His Grace should be the last thing any of them see on this earth—

“Open your eyes.”

His eyes snap open. He’s in the tent. Merlin is crouched over him. The pebbles have been knocked off his back. It takes him a moment to realize he’s breathing hard, as though he’s run for hours. Not laid on the ground. His fingers are curled in the dirt, like he needs something to hold onto. He raises his head to see Pym kneeling in front of him, the book open in he lap. One of the pages is torn as if she’s flipped through it frantically. It takes a moment of them looking at each other for her to relax. Even just slightly.

“Lancelot?”

The name sounds foreign for another moment, even though he knows that it belongs to him. He’s no longer that nameless man. Though he’s always known his name, it took weeks from saying it the first time in ages to actually thinking of himself by it. The memory of the flog makes it difficult to bring himself back, to remember that he is Lancelot. He’s in a tent surrounded by Fey, by humans, even by a Druid and a—he doesn’t have a name for what Gawain is. But he’s there as well. He takes another deep breath before he forces his hands to unclench. He doesn’t get up though. He looks over at Merlin.

“Put them back.”

“Hold on,” Pym cuts in, “Merlin don’t you dare,” Merlin snatches his hand back and she looks at Lancelot, “just wait a moment.”

“No,” he says. She opens her mouth, “I need to go back. Merlin.”

Her eyes drag up. He looks over his shoulder at Merlin who seems quite confused as to how he wound up being the one caught in the middle of all of this. The Druid’s eyes dart between the two of them. Rather than take a position, he starts to move backwards and sits against the wall of the tent, folding his arms. Lancelot fights the urge to summon him back and turns to look at Pym. She has her lip caught between her bottom teeth as her fingers toy with the book pages. But he doesn’t let the fidgets fool him, there’s nothing yielding about her gaze.

“You weren’t responding,” she says.

“Use your magic,” he tells her. She looks confused, “it will strengthen your scent,” she looks down at the book, “it’s a stronger tie to here than my name.”

“They never called him by his name,” Merlin supplies, “I didn’t know you had one until we met on the ship.”

Pym closes the book and nods, not looking thrilled but agreeing none the less. Merlin decides to move and be useful, putting the stones back in the fire pit. Lancelot reaches in and removes a dozen new ones. Pym comes over.

“Should I put them on the same ones?”

Lancelot forces himself not to analyze her voice, he needs to know. He will figure the rest of it out later. He shakes his head and tries not to jerk as she lightly touches his left shoulder. The skin is worse where she puts them. It takes a bit for the heat to even start to seep in. The scar is worse and better than the others. He did heal himself after it was dealt, though the prospect of creating Fire kept him from healing it as much as he should have. Pym’s hair brushes his ear as she puts a stone where his shoulder touches the ground and another at the outer edge of his arm.

Panic crashes through him but he forces himself to breathe and push though it.

It’s just a scar.

It’s just a scar.

Swords are not afraid.

He wasn’t at first. He remembers Father looking down at him, some impossibly red monster with beads at his waist and a hungry look in his eyes. But there is anger. He knows he should fear the anger. That this man is not to be trifled with. Even as a boy he knows it. There was something heavy in his hand, his muscles remember aching as they gripped its impossible weight. He remembers scrambling from the chair he was tied to and grabbing the nearest thing he could reach. Deciding that it was better to die than be dragged around. He was going to run. And if anyone got in his way he was going to cut them down. He looks up at Father and tries to understand why the thought takes so long to come, why the plan takes so long to remember. He hasn’t eaten in days and the water stopped tasting funny. They haven’t drugged him. He looks at the sword on the ground and tries to grab it.

But his fingers won’t move.

He watches blood drip from them onto the ground and realizes that it’s his blood on Father’s blade. It was two quick swings, first to his back, then to his front. His arm as stopped working and the sword is laying on the ground. He doesn’t feel anything at first, then it’s almost like an itch. The itch becomes a scratch and then it’s like hot claws are digging into his back and his shoulder, though his arm remains numb. Every beat of his heart makes it hurt worse. He drops to his knees and the red specter of Father takes up his entire field of vision. He feels copper fill his mouth.

“Bless you, my child,” Father says, “though you spit in the face of God, may he see fit to save you from the Hellfire. Amen.”

The dirt rises up to meet him as he hears Father speak in a strange tongue and sees him make the sign of the cross above him as his fingers dig into the dirt and find the roots of a weed. The connection is instantaneous and the weed is long and elaborate. He vaguely remembers that if he can find a weed, he’ll be safe. Weeds always have hidden strength. He pulls at it as his cut organs heal and follows the weed to a tree. He pulls the power from it, watching it decay as his flesh starts to knit together. He hears it about to crack and rips his hand free, rolling onto his back. His throat itches as he scrambles up. The tree cracks and falls, but it doesn’t burn.

Father watches and turns to him. He hauls him up. His shoulder aches. His entire arm aches and he thinks he cries out. Father pulls apart the hole and examines the skin underneath. Father’s hands are rough. Every touch aches deep in his skin. He can’t remember home but he aches for it, even though he knows that it’s his fault he doesn’t have one.

“This is miraculous,” Father breathes, coming to his front, “He has a purpose for you, my son.”

“But I’ve always been—“

His head snaps to the side. The new pain is inconsequential as the jarring movement sends fire along the half healed wound. Before he can touch it, Father grasps his hands. He doesn’t know why it’s a bad thing to say he’s always been able to heal like that. Even before he knew about the god they worship.

“It’s a Miracle from God. I will make you our sharpest blade so you may do His Work.”

The words echo in his head.

God’s work.

The pain and fire overwhelm him even as the ground under his feet changes to the black stones. He’s standing outside a place he doesn’t remember. Everything is on fire. Not green fire, red fire. And the red makes it looks so different. They have no need for any other kind of fire. He hears voices he recognizes scream but he can’t move. His jaw and his hands hurt so badly. A nameless man in red settles a hand on his shoulder. He wants to scream. He wants to throw himself in there with the rest of them but he can’t. His mother told him not to. No matter what. Stay alive and stay away. And keep his mouth shut. His left collarbone hurts. But he knows it would have been better if the knife his uncle held found his throat and their secrets bled out with him. It would have been a mercy. Instead he turned his head and he ran like a coward instead of dying with the rest of them as the Paladins arrived.

The sharp scent hits him and his eyes snap open.

His body moves out of his control as he scrambles back. The stones are gone but the rest of him still scurries back with limbs that are too long and broad. He’s aware his chest is heaving but the thick steam is too much like smoke. His hand finds the cool air and before his mind is fully back, he throws himself from the tent and into the cool air. It’s darker than when they went in and that doesn’t help. He still feels trapped in those horrible nights as he braces his hands on his knees and fights the urge to run until his legs give out. He doesn’t realize the wounded sounds that punctuate each wretched breath belong to him. Not at first. Someone touches his shoulder and he turns, slamming them into the nearest tree and bracing his forearm against their throat. They’re smart, their hands immediately go up and away from their weapons.

“You’re alright, do you know who I am?” It takes his mind a moment to recognize the face. Arthur. He gives the barest nod but his arm doesn’t move. Neither does Arthur, “it’s alright, it’s okay—-everyone just stay back. Give him a minute. No, no look at me. You know I’m not here to hurt you. Just look at me.”

He can manage that. Arthur matches the heaving breaths he’s taking and when they breathe together, he starts to breath out longer. He can do that.

“Good, I’m going to move your arm—“ he pushes it down to a more comfortable place on his chest, “good, we’re just going to stand here for a minute,” he feels the muscles in his arm relax fractionally. It’s enough for Arthur to carefully lower it. He keeps himself against the tree, blocking Lancelot’s access. “Good. Can you get me some water?” He reaches behind him and presses a cold waterskin into his hands, “take a drink, you’ll feel better.”

The water helps him even further. It feels like he’s settling into his own skin. He’s aware of himself in a way that he’s not sure he was before. He doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. Arthur jerks his head and Lancelot turns around. It looks like half their traveling party is there in various states of being armed and dressed. Even Squirrel looks ashen faced. Kaze keeps her grip on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says to Arthur and his throat screams in protest.

“Well my clothes and skin are in one piece so let’s call this even,” he says, “we’re alright, you should all go back.”

“Like hell,” Guinevere says, pushing Pym farther behind her and walking up, “no-one is leaving him alone with anyone.”

“What happened?” He asks and everyone cringes at how hoarse his voice is. The kind smile Arthur wears slips and true worry takes over his face.

“You were screaming,” he says.

Until that moment, Lancelot wasn’t sure he remembered how to scream.

It’s an ability he would rather not have regained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments/reviews/messages. If you need clarification you can always get me on my [tumblr](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/ask). Please let me know your thoughts! Onwards!


	50. Tinder: Part 8

“Stop pacing. He’s fine,” Merlin says, not lifting the arm flung over his eyes, “he’s with the chosen one and a man whose defied death.”

Pym ignores Merlin. He has no way of knowing if they’re fine. She’s worried about all of them. It’s been a long time since she’s been afraid of Lancelot. But since Merlin called him a blade, that fear is back. It’s not the same. She was afraid of the quiet, controlled and shut down believer who had caused more death than she can fathom. She has no idea what to do with the wild thing that Lancelot just became. Twice. She never thought she would understand why the Paladins kept him so controlled. It makes her skin crawl to think that she does.

“They should be back by now,” she says.

Merlin sighs and lifts his arm. Pym doesn’t break her pacing. She vaguely remembers Guinevere leading her away and it making sense to stay with her patient. Equally vaguely she remembers scrubbing herself clean of the sweat and the shock of the cold water against her flesh. The underdress that Guinevere gives her is like nothing Pym’s ever worn. She would say that it’s stolen but the garment seems to never have been worn. It’s fine too and made of some kind of fabric Pym’s never felt before. It’s the finest thing she’s ever put on. The outer dress is also far nicer than anything she’s worn, with lacing up the sides that form intricate loops. But none of that compares to the colors. The deep violets are so expensive, Pym understands why Guinevere didn’t wear these around. One look is all it would take to know she was a princess.

“I’m going after them,” Pym says.

“I feel faint,” Merlin remarks laying back down.

Pym grinds her teeth and turns away. She knows that Merlin is playing the part to keep her from running off into the woods to find them. But on the incredibly slim chance he isn’t, she can’t just leave him there to suffer. She walks over and looms over him. She’s not particularly intimidating but she does her best to will him to put his arm down and look at her. He lowers it fractionally and cracks open an eye.

“Why are you doing this?” He raises an eyebrow, “I thought it was to honor Nimue or to learn more about her. But that’s not it. So why?”

Merlin sighs and sits up, a very old look coming onto his face. Pym braces herself for the answer.

“I saw something,” he says, “when I tried to join her. I saw a great city. Lead by great people who would do wondrous things. I saw greatness and then I saw peace. With my daughter,” he looks up at her, “the only way I get that peace and the time that was stolen from us is if I make that city come to pass.”

The selfish answer shouldn’t surprise her. Of course it’s not Merlin wanting to help because it’s the right thing to do. Why would she ever think that. She resumes pacing but Merlin doesn’t go back to lying down.

“He was there,” Merlin says, “so were the others,” Pym ignores him, “I didn’t see you.”

“Why would I be in some great city you saw in a lake?” Pym questions, reminding herself there’s no reason for the knot in her stomach. Not over some ridiculous statement like that. Merlin shrugs, “so all of that was to help Lancelot be in your city,” she says.

“Not entirely,” he looks at her, “you were the only one not there.”

“Can you not talk in riddles?” Pym demands, “maybe I did before you get to your city. Maybe only warriors can go there. I don’t know,” she throws her hands up, “it’s your vision.”

There’s the sound of movement outside the door. Merlin opens his mouth but Pym ignores him and crosses the room, pulling open the door. Arthur looks tired, more tired than she’s seen him and he’s always tired. Living on the road is exhausting in a way Pym didn’t consider. Gawain moves next to him and even he seems more human than she’s witnessed. Like he used to look when he came back from a long journey and he would need hours to collect himself before seeing either her or Nimue. They both stop talking as she stands there and Pym shoves the familiar feeling away. She’s used to conversation dying as she walks into the room. Tonight she doesn’t have the patience for it.

“Well?” She says.

“He’s with—“ Arthur starts.

“Goliath. I figured,” she says, “is there anything I should know?”

“He’s not speaking,” Gawain says, “except to say he wanted to be alone.”

Pym hesitates for only a moment before she ignores the advice. She knots the dress so it stops dragging and walks out of the church. Out of all the ridiculous things she’s heard, the suggestion that she listens to Lancelot wanting to be alone is the most preposterous. If he tells her to leave that will be a different story and she will deal with that if it happens. She pauses to check on Squirrel and he’s curled into a tight ball. She touches his shoulder and he looks at her.

“I’m going to go check on him,” she says. He nods, looking more like a child than she’s seen him recently, “he’s going to be alright.”

“I know,” Squirrel says, “he said they were going to do those things to me.”

“But they didn’t,” Pym promises him, “and Lancelot’s going to be alright.”

“Are you?”

She nods.

“We all are.”

There’s a tap at her shoulder and she turns to see Bors standing there, clutching his toy. He looks afraid as he rubs his eye but then he thrusts it out at her.

“It makes me feel braver,” he explains.

“Oh—“

“Give him this too,” Squirrel says, taking off the amulet and passing it to her.

She doesn’t know what has happened but by the time she leaves she has half a dozen toys and trinkets from the various children and a blanket. If they are afraid, it’s not nearly as powerful as them wanting to make sure he’s alright. Pym wraps them in the blanket and promises to try to give them to him. Thankfully none of them follow her. She’s not sure she has the heart to tell any of them they need to stay behind.

She finds him easily in the field where they’re keeping the horses. He’s sitting cross legged and Goliath is nearby, his tail swishing lazily. She knows it’s him but it takes her a moment to accept the way he looks.

He looks like a Fey.

Gawain or Arthur brought him different clothes. She recognizes the naturally imperfect weave that man made clothes can’t replicate. His hair is down and almost dry. It’s gotten longer since she’s last seen it down, it’s nearly to his shoulders and curls as it dries. He’s not weeping or screaming, he would almost look at peace if she didn’t recognize the terrifying stillness that’s been trained into him. He glances at her but doesn’t say anything so she steps forward. Goliath raises his head, deems her not a threat and returns to grazing.

“I can go if you want,” she offers, “I just wanted to see you were—“ she hesitates, “your version of alright.”

His lips quirk up barely but even that flicker feels like a victory.

“Stay,” he rasps

She apologizes to Guinevere sits down, trying to keep the dress from getting too wet. Guinevere doesn’t seem like she cares but it hurts Pym’s head to think about how much the dyes and workmanship must have cost to create it. The hemp colors of Lancelot’s clothing wear far better. Or maybe it’s just the familiarity of what her fingers know. Even if it’s strange to see on him. She wishes she had thought to bring something like water or tea, but her only thought was getting to him.

“I can get you something for your throat if—” she offers. He looks at her sharply as she’s about to get up, “if it would help,” she finishes.

“I’m—“

“You don’t have to say you’re alright,” she says, “I can stay instead?” He nods and she settles back, “I should have brought a stick for you to write with.”

He looks at her quietly for a moment and then turns, digging his hand under the grass. The grass turns to ash. Goliath snorts in protest and he turns his hand, carefully piling the ash out of the way in a spot that’s already been grazed. Goliath gives a slightly aggressive flick of his tail. Lancelot brushes his hand across his forehead and his other across his pants. Pym presses her lips together so she doesn’t have to tell him not to do that.

“I’m glad you did that,” she admits, “but I wasn’t going to push you to tell me.”

“But you want to know,” he says, his voice no longer hoarse. She glances away, “I didn’t remember everything.”

“I want to make sure you’re alright—your version of alright,” she corrects, “more than I want to know.” He considers her words quietly. “Arthur and Gawain said you weren’t speaking,” she says.

“It’s not something I wanted to tell them,” he says after another moment of consideration. His throat his healed, but his voice takes on the hoarse edge. She thinks it’s muscle memory at this point, “I think I might forget it again.”

“Maybe that would be best,” she says, trying not to think of the way he screamed.

“Can I—“ he drags his eyes away before they come back to her, “the memories aren’t good.”

“I know,” she says, “you can tell me if you want,” she volunteers. He hesitates, “I’ve seen horrible things,” she reminds him, “and you told me about that room.”

“This is worse,” he says quickly.

“I guessed as much,” she says, “I’ve never heard you—“ she cuts herself off. She doesn’t want to push things away but she is doing her best not to remember the sounds he was making, “I’ll listen if you want to tell me,” she says.

He nods. But he doesn’t seem to know where to start. She doesn’t blame him for being at a loss, she thinks even someone who spoke perfectly would struggle.

“You could start with the first ones?” She says, motioning to her back.

“Brother Salt,” he says, “the one who killed Gawain and was going to torture Squirrel. He was responsible for testing my loyalties,” he says, “until I was willing to do it myself.”

“Those marks are deep,” she says.

“They needed to be certain,” he tells her. Pym forces herself to not look horrified, “when they were sure, when I picked up the flog myself—he sewed his eyes shut in penance.”

“He did what?” She sputters, unable to stay silent and impassive, “if he had such a problem with it, wouldn’t it be easier to just not torture children?” She questions, trying to push aside her feelings.

“I wasn’t a child by the end of it,” he says.

She opens her mouth to protest and thinks better of it. He said he wanted to tell her and she is determined to listen. She also doesn’t want to excuse what followed. That is a thought that still lingers in the back of her mind like an aftertaste. Though she understands better, she has since that day in the woods. Neither of them wants to excuse what he has done. She almost wants to say that he shouldn’t keep going. But his fingers curl and she lets him continue.

“I tried to escape,” he says, “once. I picked up a sword and I tried to run,” a hollow look comes onto his face, “I didn’t understand why my arm stopped working,” he says, “Father told me I was going to die but there were weeds in the ground.”

“You healed yourself,” she realizes.

“He called it a miracle from God,” Lancelot says, “when I told him I had always been able to do it, he corrected me.”

She sees his jaw clench and it doesn’t take much to guess at what a Paladin thinks correction is. Lancelot is quiet for a moment before his shoulders hunch in a way that makes Pym’s neck ache.

“I forgot I had tried to escape,” he says, “when we ran, they asked if Squirrel reminded me of someone. But I didn’t understand.” 

He emphasizes the last word. There’s so much confusion. So many things fitting together. He looks over at her and she nods. Something stubborn sets in his face, even with the hollow look in his eyes.

“I remembered the beach,” he says, “the night the Paladins came,” Pym forces herself not to hold her breath, “we were supposed to keep the secret of the Fire,” he says, “children don’t keep them well. When they knew we were lost, they took us to the beach where there weren’t any roots. Though we barely knew how to heal. I—“ he trails off, “I turned at the last minute. I ran. The Paladins found me and the ones who hadn’t had their throats cut.”

Pym has no words for what she’s hearing. The Ash Folk have been rumors for her entire life. But the rumors have never been kind. They have always been spoken about as ruthless and cruel. With power that none can understand. What they can do was lost to those rumors. But the idea that they would kill those they couldn’t trust to keep the Fire safe goes in line with what she heard. She thinks about Squirrel or any of the little ones and almost wants to be sick with the idea of them suffering that. For nothing more than being children who don’t know how to keep secrets.

What he’s done to the rest of their kind cannot be changed or forgiven. But for the first time she thinks she understands the secrecy that’s been drilled into him. It’s not a ghost story, not a threat. She thought it was seeing his family die in those fires rather than save themselves, but now she can see it’s much worse than that terrible thing. She had thought the scar on his collarbone was one of the more harmless—if any of them could be considered such a thing.

“That must have been terrifying,” she says, not sure if it’s right or wrong—if there even are the right words to say.

He’s quiet for a long moment before he nods.

“I don’t want to make things more complicated,” he says finally.

“You haven’t,” she assures him. He looks like he doesn’t believe her and she can’t blame him, “what you remember, it doesn’t make me think differently of you. You told me what I needed to know back in the woods,” she says, “but I can see why you didn’t want to be Fey, even without the Paladins.”

“I thought it was God making sense,” he admits.

Pym thinks of the cruelty she’s encountered from her own kind. It’s nothing compared to what he described and there were moments when she had wished to not be around them anymore. Childhood frustrations, teenage cruelty, nothing of any real consequence. Not like he is speaking of. No-one ever threatened to cut her throat, the worse that she suffered was being told no-one was going to want to be her friend or marry her.

“I think that’s what they wanted,” she says. He nods, “I’m sorry,” she says abruptly. He looks at her curiously, “I hoped there was—I don’t know. Some kind of happy memory mixed in there.”

“Does that help you?” He asks.

“Usually,” she says, drawing her knees up. Her change in positions make him shift towards her, “but what you—“

“What do you mean usually?” He cuts in.

Pym presses her lips together and glances away.

“You know what I mean,” she says, “don’t try to change the subject.”

He has the grace to duck his head, some of the humor returning to his face even though the worry is still there. Mourning a friend and her loss seems so foolish compared to what he has gone through. She doesn’t even know why it’s come up. She tightens her arms around her knees and he he angles more towards her after a moment. She frowns and looks at him.

“What are you doing?” He stares at her, looking not unlike a child whose been caught doing something naughty.

“You’re closing off,” he says.

Heat floods her face.

“Yes but how do you know that?” He looks at her quietly.

“Why?”

“Why do I want to know how you know that?” She asks.

“No, why are you closing off,” he says.

Now she feels like the naughty child. She’s not used to her body betraying her. Or maybe she’s just not used to someone noticing. Though Lancelot speaks this nonverbal language with unnerving fluency.

“I was thinking about how foolish it is to be shut down and afraid of feeling things when you have all that in your head,” she admits, “I just have a few bad memories. But a lot of good ones. I don’t have any reason to be afraid of my own head.”

“Yes you do,” he says. She looks at him. His brow knits together in frustration, “you shouldn’t be afraid of your feelings,” he says, “but you have as much a reason to be afraid as I do.”

“You’ve spent your entire life being tortured and manipulated,” she says, “that doesn’t compare—“

“It’s your life,” he says, not unkindly, “I don’t think it’s been easy.“

The heat in her face never going to go away at this point. She doesn’t know why Merlin’s words chime in her head about her not being there at the end of this in their great city. Maybe because Lancelot sitting there makes her realize she wants to be. It’s an unsettling thought. She dislikes the longing that seems to be burrowing into her.

“I came out here to check on you,” she says, “not talk about me.”

He manages something very close to a smile.

“I went in there to help you,” he points out, “not become the focus.”

She shakes her head.

“I suppose that’s what we get when this was all supposed to be about Merlin,” she says. 

Goliath snorts and she takes that as an agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo hoo, anyone else stoked to be out of the tent? I know I am. As always thank you for your comments/kudos/tumblr messages. Your feedback is the thing that keeps me focused. Let me know what you thought and I will see you in the next chapter!


	51. Tinder: Part 9

Lancelot thinks this must be what purgatory feels like.

He feels as though he’s stuck between two very different places. He feels more like himself, but also not the same as he was before the memories came back. He’s spent longer than he can remember convinced of his own cowardice. It kept him rooted to the Paladins, it spoke louder than his own knowledge. How Gawain saw it, even when he was half dead, he doesn’t know. Now things are clearer. He knows that he was being used, but to him it made sense. A sword was used, cleaned and put away.

He knew how to be a sword.

Now, he isn’t sure he knows how to be anything else.

Lancelot forces himself to think his own name. To not go back to the place where he thinks of himself differently. He is Lancelot. Who that is in the grander sense of things, he cannot say. But it is his identity. He let it be wiped from his mind a very long time ago, he refuses to let that happen again. If all he can cling to are his name, the memory of Squirrel’s bravery, the feel of Goliath moving underneath his legs and Pym’s scent, he thinks he can at least not slip back to the nameless place.

“I have something for you,” she says, “several somethings,” she pulls the blanket over, “the young ones got worried about you spending the night out here.”

Lancelot thinks of how his throat feels, it’s clear he was screaming. But it’s been so long since he’s made the sounds. He thought it had been trained out of him after years of half remembered nightmares. He has no reference for how his throat is supposed to hurt for a certain amount of screaming. He can just bundle it together with ‘a lot’.

Pym opens up the blanket to a collection of children’s dolls. Comforting things they’ve brought from the home he helped take from them. Or things that have been made along the way as they’ve traveled. It’s a humbling thing to see the collection and to know what it means to the hands that placed them there.

“And Squirrel wanted me to give you this,” she adds, holding out the amulet that keeps getting passed between the three of them, “it’s your turn to wear it.”

He takes it carefully and the linen wrapped around her arm catches his gaze. He looks at her curiously and she sighs, nodding and putting her hand in his. He sets the amulet aside and carefully pulls up the sleeve of her dress, looking at the wrap around her forearm arm.

“It’s shallow,” she says, “it was the only thing I could think to do to after the magic didn’t seem to work.”

He wonders if the scars she’s acquired in their time together would be there if it wasn’t for him. Iron marks dot her skin in several places, though the largest is the mark on her hand from the shackles. It seems like a lifetime ago that they were on the boat. He thought that it was the most complicated place he had been. Now he thinks it may have been the simplest. The mark she’s cut on her forearm won’t even leave a scar, but it isn’t something he wanted to make her do.

  
“I’m sorry you had to do that,” he says.

  
“Don’t be sorry, I shouldn’t have let you do that,” she tells him, “I’m just glad it worked.”

“I needed to know,” he says.

Pym doesn’t look convinced. She didn’t look convinced back in the tent when she had hesitated and he had insisted. They were his memories, he needed to at least start the process of unlocking them. Though he didn’t mean for it to go as far as it did. He thought that his biggest issue was going to be apologizing for being insistent and upsetting her. Not scaring everyone to the point of children deciding he needed security more than they did. He lowers her hand and she puts it back in her lap.

His back gives a terrible, un-ignorable itch.

“What’s wrong?” Pym asks, “you look frustrated all of a sudden.”

Lancelot doesn’t know how to tell her without upsetting her. The strangest thing with all of this is that it’s the first time in his adult life that his injuries and screams have been met with something other than punishment or judgement or more pain. It’s more unnerving than his first days with them when his injuries were healed but he was rightfully met with judgement and wariness. To have so many people fuss over him is almost more dangerous. It’s not something he understands and the desperation he can feel to want to understand it, to want to get used to it—that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

“Just an itch,” he says. Pym arches an unimpressed brow and he remembers her being so upset with his omission on the beach. It’s not a look he enjoys putting on her face, “my back always itches,” he explains after a moment, “since we met,” she frowns, not understanding, “I miss the flog,” he says finally. 

“Oh—of course you do,” she replies, only sympathy on her face, “you must have gotten used to it. I was afraid your back was infected.”

He shakes his head, relieved she doesn’t tell him he’s mad for missing it. He though the pain was tied to his faith and his control of his powers. His wickedness. And in many ways it was. But now he can also see how he was twisted into doing it. The connection was formed a long time ago. What was supposed to be penance was used by him and the Paladins. He used the action to make sure his powers had enough damage to heal that he wouldn’t reveal the Fire. They used it to make sure he was still under their control. It’s a bastardization of the action. It makes the itch worse, like someone is making it clear his suffering is needed as penance for what he did. Without an ulterior motive.

“Lancelot.”

He turns at the sound of his name as Pym covers his hand with her own. He realizes that both of his hands are clenched into fists. They are tight past the point of protecting the joints against impact and just purely into digging his nails as deep as he can into the heel of his palms. He forces his hands to relax and lets Pym look at his palm. The crescent marks from his nails are just dents. She looks from his palm to his face and he sees the worry there. It’s more emotion than he’s seen for months on her face.

“You’re losing control of your emotions,” she says, miraculously there’s no accusation in her voice.

“I know,” he admits, wondering what kind of cruel joke it is that they’ve switched places like this, “Kaze and I have been working on controlling the Fire without my emotions or injuring myself.”

“That’s good,” she says, “but I’m more concerned about you,” she admits, “have you been angry? Like you were in the tent?”

He shakes his head. It’s complicated, he’s sure he’s felt it. But he’s been in control of his emotions for so long, it’s rare they’ve gotten the best of him. Not since he learned to keep them down.

“I learned not to act on my emotions like that when Father cut me down,” he admits, “I wanted to leave him behind. Hearing those words made me think Merlin was in my head.”

“I can understand why you wouldn’t want that,” Pym says.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says abruptly, suddenly needing her to understand.

Something breaks across her face and she shakes her head, her fingers tightening on his hand.

“I know that,” Pym says, “you stopped yourself with him and with Arthur which is good.”

“No,” he says, “you’re different,” she looks at him in confusion, “your scent brought me back. Even when I was angry. It was different. I didn’t recognize Arthur at first, but I knew you,” he doesn’t know how to put into words what he’s trying to say. He can only curl his fingers around hers, “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Her cheeks stain with color and she looks around as though collecting her thoughts. He holds himself still, waiting for her reply. Her knowing no matter how lost he got in his emotions he wouldn’t hurt her is more important than anything that’s mattered until this moment. She doesn’t pull her hand away and he wonders if she’s thinking about the things that she;’s witnessed him doing. Even after he’s become someone more than the sword who would cut down all the villages. He isn’t even sure how many Guard members he’s killed. She looks back at him finally and nods.

“I believe you,” she says, “it’s still frightening to see you like that,” she digs her teeth briefly into her bottom lip, “when the magic didn’t work, I didn’t know if blood would,” she tenses, “I was going to get closer to you but you didn’t seem to be in control of your body.”

“It worked,” he assures her, “next time it won’t take blood.”

“Next time?” She says, “can we get through this time first?” He looks down and she tightens her fingers on his hand, “Lancelot there’s no sense in you going back in your head if it destroys the person you are right now. I know you need to know, but there has to be a way to do it that won’t hurt you like this.”

He hears what she’s saying but it’s not what he wants to hear. He wants to go back and unravel everything. Take the poison in one gulp. He can recognize the familiarity of the feelings. From the first day they set foot on land again, when he wished to do the practical thing and protect everyone. It made sense, but he remembers the strange feeling of realizing that people were worried about him because of nothing more than their shared experience. They cared about him more than they cared about what he could provide them.

“I don’t know who I am now,” he says.

“You’re someone who has people that care about you,” she points out, “no matter if you remember or not,” her face softens, “I don’t think you find out who you are by getting lost in your past. I think you find it out by being here.”

Everyone’s reactions back up her point, but the answer isn’t the one he wants to hear.

“We can find a different way,” Pym says, “or a better way to do it. Maybe not while we’re trying to heal Merlin from drinking too much.”

He nods, even he can admit that makes sense. Much as he wishes it didn’t. But the ache and itch that seems to live under her skin and beg for the flog makes him think his own feelings are not so different from Merlins. Pym looks at him with naked worry and he nods again.

“Alright,” he agrees finally, realizing she needs to hear the words. They feel as though they’re binding, “we’ll find another way.”

She relaxes and he realizes that it might be the third time he’s seen her look less tense in the past months. Any lingering fear he had from watching her curl into herself physically is pushed back by hope that maybe it pushed things in a better direction. Or at least started the process of showing her she doesn’t need to hide herself from the grief. It’s not something anyone can do for her, but she’s no more alone than he is. But the feeling of not being alone is so new, he doesn’t know how to assure someone of it when he doesn’t understand it himself.

“Do you feel anything?” He asks.

Pym shrugs rather helplessly.

“I think so?” She says, “I always felt things but—I’m still afraid of everything,” he nods, “I guess it’s no so different from your anger.”

“I can help you back.”

He’s not sure where the words come from and for a moment Pym’s surprise seems like they are the foolish thing to say. She doesn’t have his abilities and he barely knows how to navigate his own emotions. But he can read her body language well enough. And after a moment her face breaks and she almost smiles, though she quickly looks away. Her hand loosens in his but she doesn’t pull away and he doesn’t let go.

“I thought only someone who knew me as long as she did could understand,” she admits, grasping his hand again, “I think you may be right. It can’t be worse than that tent.”

If the tent lead to this, he thinks it was not so bad.

“Are you sleeping out here?” She asks. He nods, “can I stay?”

“Yes,” he says, relieved at the prospect.

He hadn’t been planning on sleeping but it seems more a possibility now. She lets his hand go to spread the blanket out in an already chewed part of the field, standing up to scratch Goliath behind his ears. Lancelot picks up the toys that have been loaned to him and settles them in a pile, tucking the corner of the blanket around them to keep them safe. Pym lays down and he seat himself nearby. When she gives him a look he understands the healer’s orders and lays down next to her.

“Merlin will be fine,” she says aloud.

“You can check on him in the morning,” he says.

Pym seems to listen and nods, cushioning her head on her arms. It doesn’t take much for her to fall asleep. Lancelot stays awake a while longer before the sound of Goliath’s familiar chewing and the rhythm of her breathing lure him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I have apparently horrified some people with the prospect of Pym's death. For those who want a clearer (but not spoiler) answer I direct you to [here](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/post/629639441259118592/please-dont-kill-pym). But for everyone I will say that this is not a dark fic/tragedy and the reason why she's absent has been hinted at but will be elaborated on.
> 
> Feedback is love! If you are enjoying this or have feedback please let me know. And thank you to everyone who liked/commented/kudosed last time. Onwards!


	52. Tinder: Part 10

She’s not cold when she wakes up, though she certainly expects to be.

Her eyes crack open to the sun. It’s the first time in a long time that she’s woken up to the sun being high in the sky and not just peaking over the horizon. Her immediate thought is that it’s very strange, especially considering how loud everything seems to be. Not to mention the hours spent yesterday in uncomfortable positions. She can feel the ache in her body. Even the borrowed, beautiful clothes feel unsettling and almost wrong. It takes her mind a moment to figure out what is going on.

Lancelot is not so much next to her as he is behind her. They’ve slept near each other since, well, since his first night at the camp. Though she had no idea he was in the tent. But there’s always been distance. Their sleeping arrangements have more or less been figured to Lancelot in the middle and closest to the opening, her on one side and Squirrel on the other. She thinks both she and Squirrel plan on waking him up if he has nightmares, as they both seem unwilling to move from the spot next to him.

Somehow in the middle of the night they’ve shifted towards each other and their backs are wedged against each other. She can’t feel his scars through their clothes but she imagines she can for a moment before she pushes the thought out of her head. What she can feel is his steady heart and the rhythm of his breathing. He’s still asleep. She realizes that even just laying there, her breathing has picked up on his rhythm again. It feels strange to lay there and breathe with another person, but it’s not a bad strange. It might be the best strange in a world of strange sensations.

It’s also the first time she’s woken up pressed against someone like this.

Heat rises in her face even as she vainly tries to fight against it and remind herself that there is a very long list of bigger things to worry about. And they have been sharing a tent. A few lost inches of space shouldn’t make any difference. But the sun on her face says otherwise. It’s not terribly late in the day, but certainly late enough. She pushes herself up slowly and realizes she never braided her hair. If he recognized her scent, maybe that’s for the best. He’s still asleep as she turns to wake him up.

He looks even more Fey, if that’s possible.

Pym doesn’t know why, maybe because the light and warmth of the sun are so much more like his fire. He’s been wearing his hood down more and the sun has tanned his skin, turning him from some pale specter into something she would recognize as Fey if they passed each other on the road. The marks on his face catch the light and reflect it away from his eyes. It surprises her how it doesn’t feel quite right. He’s always been Fey, making him look like one feels—oddly unnecessary, no matter how it probably helps others. She touches his shoulder.

“Lancelot,” she says, “we have to get up.”

His eyes crack open and for a moment he looks almost irritated at waking up. Then the world catches up to him and he turns, looking up at her. She quickly pulls back the piece of hair that falls against him, shoving it behind her ear. He slowly sits up, his own hair falling almost to his shoulders. Though it’s nothing compared to the length of hers.

“We slept late,” he says.

“I wasn’t expecting that either,” she starts, “a lot happened yesterday.“

“Sleeping against each other must have helped,” he says.

Pym clamps her mouth shut. Looking different doesn’t change his directness. Of all the ways he flounders, the physical side of things isn’t one of them. He doesn’t take whatever out she’s offering. She nods instead.

“I think it did,” she agrees, “you don’t have a problem with it?” He looks at her quietly and then shakes his head.

“I thought Fey slept together,” he says.

“They do,” she tells him, “but we’re not family,” she points out, “or of the same Folk—which isn’t a problem,” she adds quickly, “I don’t have a problem with sleeping against you. It’s the first time I’ve slept through the night in months—“ he touches the back of her hand as he sits up fully, “I just don’t want it to be uncomfortable.”

“It’s not for me,” he says.

“Or for me,” she replies.

He nods and gets to his feet as she does. Goliath bats him gently with his nose and he strokes the horse’s forehead, whispering something to him in a language that Pym doesn’t speak. Goliath makes a noise and then lowers his head to start grazing again. Pym rolls the blanket up, mindful of it’s precious cargo and straightens with it in her arms.

Goliath whinnies unexpectedly, surprising her. She’s used to him making much softer sounds. But she’s spent enough time with them to know that he doesn’t make that sound for just anything. Lancelot immediately moves so he is between her and the rest of the field, his eyes moving around before he stops and holds himself very still.

“Stay behind me,” he says, “Goliath.” Goliath moves closer, putting himself against Pym’s shoulder.

She hears the sound of hooves and under Lancelot’s shoulder, she can see a man on horseback coming out of the woods at an almost laughably slow pace.

He’s not dressed in red but a dark brown habit. It’s distinctly familiar in it’s cut though and Pym immediately feels her heart pick up. He stops his horse immediately and Pym pulls the knife off her belt, going to press it into Lancelot’s hand but he shakes his head. The cloaked monk moves his head as he looks around. It’s midday, people are largely keeping indoors but a few are around. Including the two of them. He focuses on Lancelot.

Then reaches behind him, draws his blade and throws it far out of reach. 

He dismounts and immediately drops to his knees and holds his hands up. Or his hand. One is a hand and one is a smooth stump. Lancelot motions for her to stay where she is and walks towards him. He makes no move to put aside his weapons but stays as still as possible. She watches his hand tremble slightly even as he does his best to stand still. Lancelot pushes back his hood and looks down at him with open disgust and frustration.

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

“I’m the caretaker of several churches,” he says, “to make sure they aren’t defiled.”

“We’ve been here for days,” Lancelot returns evenly.

He looks up at him and flounders for a moment. Lancelot arches one eyebrow in an unmistakable gesture of dissatisfaction at his responses.

“I said several,” he says, “I ride between them. No-one really cares much about them, that’s why they left a one handed man to do the work,” he catches her eye and she quickly looks away. Then he looks back up at Lancelot, “you’re talking more.”

“Is anyone with you?”

“You know they’re not,” he says, “there’s nothing of value in these churches anymore.”

Lancelot considers this for a moment and then nods. The man gets to his feet slowly and Lancelot grasps the reins of his horse. He leads them both over to where she’s standing, his hand on the man’s back. But he doesn’t try anything. Pym swallows as she takes in his tonsure and the beads that hang from the folds of his brown robes. He looks closer to Lancelot’s age than she was expecting, with a mop of cropped dark blonde hair and blue grey eyes.

“This is Father Bedivere,” he says shortly.

“Hello,” Bedivere says, almost cheerfully. Like he’s greeted an old friend and is happy for the reunion, “you are—“  
“Don’t speak to her,” Lancelot cuts him off.

“Of course,” Bedivere says as though it makes sense. It does but Pym isn’t expecting him to acknowledge it, “my apologies I—“ he catches Lancelot’s displeased look, “damn.”

“It’s alright,” Pym says, finding her voice. She’s not prepared for a Paladin to be anything but terrifying. Let alone almost charming, “are you still a Paladin?”

“I was demoted,” he says, “I serve them,” he explains, “hence, no red. But first I am a servant of God Almighty—“

“That’s enough,” Lancelot cuts in, “can you remove the bridal and saddle?” He asks, his tone softening slightly. Pym nods and quickly does it before gathering up the blanket. All the while Lancelot keeps his eyes on the woods and his hand pinning Bedivere’s arms behind his back, “walk,” he orders Bedivere.

As they approach the church, the door opens. The Raider looks at them and then ducks inside. A moment later Guinevere comes out, carrying her spear. She does not look pleased at the sight of them and Pym can’t really blame her.

“This is Father Bedivere,” he says, “he was a Paladin,” Guinevere’s fingers tighten, “now he minds the churches.”

“How do we know others aren’t with him?” She questions.

“The Paladins don’t care about these churches anymore,” Lancelot says, “when’s the last time they were here?”

“They didn’t arrive the last time they were supposed to be here,” he explains, “it was time for them to be here a few months ago. I received word they were going to send you.”

“Have you heard from them since?”

“No,” he says, “I assumed they had more pressing work.”

He’s not wrong about that assumption. It’s a strange thing to think that Lancelot could have been the one riding here on Goliath, still a man of the Cloth. Still carrying out Father Carden’s orders. Now he’s standing there looking more Fey than she’s ever seen him. However unnerving she thinks it is, it seems far more unsettling to the new priest.

“So you know nothing about the Paladins in the past few months?” Guinevere asks. He shakes his head, “are you surprised to see him?”

“Very,” he says. Guinevere steps forward and she sees the subtle way Father Bedivere shifts his weight. The charm is, at least in part, a calculation. Lancelot seems to know it too, his grip tightens on his wrists, “I’m surprised to see anyone here. It’s—“ he stops and goes several shades paler. The charming mask starts to slip off his face. Pym follows his eyeline, “oh no.”

She supposes it was only a matter of time before they tangled with one of the Paladins who had tangled with another Fey. Kaze comes striding out, takes one look at him and moves forward, dropping her hand to her sword. Bedivere’s jaw clenches and his eyes follow the movement.

“Hello, Paladin,” she says, “come to lose the other hand?”

“I did not,” He says.

“We’ll see,” she says.

Guinevere glances from them to Lancelot.

“Can he be useful?”

“I don’t know.”

“Kill him?”

Lancelot hesitates for a moment and then shakes his head. Pym is surprised, though the way they speak to each other it seems there’s a familiarity there. She hesitates calling it a friendship, she’s not sure Lancelot had friends, but Father Bedivere has yet to act hostile or even go for a weapon. He seems to know how to deal with Lancelot in a way she hasn’t seen from the other Paladins they’ve encountered.

“Fine. Kaze, find him some new accommodations,” she says, “away from our other guest. In case that’s who he’s here for.”

Father Bedivere looks at them blankly but Kaze gives a fang bearing grin and takes his hands from Lancelot. She steers him around the back and out of the way. Guinevere doesn’t put her spear down and grasps Pym’s arm, pulling her over.

“You were gone all night,” she says.

“We were just in the field,” Pym replies. Guinevere looks at Lancelot and Pym rolls her eyes, “he didn’t do anything. Aren’t we past this?”

“No,” she says, “not when you spend the night with him.”

“Stop saying that,” Pym scolds, “we’ve slept in the same tent most nights anyway so this conversation is a little late,” she says.

“You think I haven’t checked on you?” Guinevere questions, “you’re my healer.”

Pym isn’t expecting that. She’s outraged and oddly touched by the idea that Guinevere has kept an eye on her in her own brutal way. But she’s also outraged that she would think Lancelot of all people would try anything. Pym only thought that the first night, his reaction to discovering he had been sleeping in the same tent as a woman made it clear he was not the kind of man to break that vow back then. Now she trusts him enough to know he wouldn’t do anything even if he’s broken those vows.

“Well I’m fine,” she says, “I have the knife—“

“Which you don’t know how to use—“

“And Lancelot wouldn’t do that,” she says, a bit louder than she probably should. Lancelot is standing there with the blanket and when she looks over at him his face is starting to turn red, “so I am fine. He is fine and we have both slept through the night. Now can we decide what to do with the priest that just showed up?”

Neither of them move so she starts walking,

“Can you put the spear down? Please?” She says to Guinevere who glares a final time and lowers it, “come on,” she says to Lancelot, “we have things to return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sofor all you people who hypothesized Lancelot had to have had at least one friend, you were partially correct. For anyone confused Bedivere is another very important Arthurian character heavily connected to Arthur and Lancelot. Traveling priests who looked after multiple churches were also a thing in this time period.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts. I also take constructive criticism so please don't think I'm just looking for praise--though I definitely take that too. I'll see you in the next chapter!


	53. Tinder: Part 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning as there is a frank discussion about virginity, consequences of pre-marital sex. Unfortunately in this rough time period it was a thing that was a problem and monks/holy men being celibate was just becoming more popular. This is a fantasy but I have strived for some slight historical accuracy whenever possible.

“You had a friend?”

“Not like that.”

“Like what then?”

Lancelot doesn’t know how to explain it. Squirrel is very blunt in his emotions, as children usually are. Explaining that believing the same lies and killing the same enemies can bind people without them truly being friends is a difficult thing to explain. It’s been years since he set eyes on Father Bedivere, though the strain on their camaraderie happened earlier. When he was permitted to take his Holy Orders. Lancelot isn’t too proud to admit his jealousy, though he did his penance for the sin of feeling it.

“Paladins don’t want to be friends with Fey,” he says, “even useful ones. We were just paired up together more frequently.”

“Like a friend,” Squirrel says, “in your weird way.”

“No,” Lancelot says, “he is still loyal to the Paladins. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill any of us.”

“But I thought you said that he threw the sword away, that seems like hesitation. Tristain tried to kill you.”

Lancelot can admit that’s a valid point. But it’s also not as simple as he’s making it seem. He relaxed his hands when he felt Bedivere’s weight shift and again when Kaze appeared and he went tense. He knows Bedivere felt his grip loosen, but he didn’t try anything. He doesn’t know if the man realized it was a test or not. Still he doesn’t trust his loyalty. Though Gawain left a permanent mark on his ability to blindly trust things one way or another.

“He’s a well trained fighter with questionable loyalties,” Lancelot says, “no matter how he tries to charm you, you need to remember that. Do you understand?”

“Paladins and those loyal to them are not to be trusted,” Squirrel says, “so why did he get kicked out?”

“He was crippled,” he says.

“That doesn’t seem like a very good reason,” Squirrel says.

Lancelot nods. He remembers feeling perplexed by the news. But he had been told that once you were touched by a demon like that, there was no hope for you as a hand of God. You could live a pious, quiet life and pray that God he would see fit to save you. The hypocrisy of it now reeks of something else going on, something that he was willfully blind to. But that doesn’t mean Bedivere can be trusted. And the first priority is making sure Squirrel understands that.

“I could have helped if I was there,” Squirrel says abruptly, “I’m good in a fight, I helped with the bucket.”

It’s a fair point. Lancelot knows he’ll forever regret what he has exposed these young ones to, them and all the other young ones. But Squirrel seems to be the one who continues to find himself in situations far out of his maturity, purely because they seem to be in the same place at the same time. Even though they are bound together in ways he cannot fully explain—and ways that he can—the instinct to protect him is still strong. Stronger than the instinct to trust or push him, which he thinks Squirrel would prefer.

“I know Pym’s the best but I can be useful,” he says, “I’m your Knight.”

“Are there things you feel more comfortable talking about with Bors?” He asks. Squirrel considers for a moment and then shrugs, “sometimes it is easier to tell things to someone closer in age to you,” Squirrel seems to understand but not like it, “but you were very good back there. You reacted well.”

“You’ll always be older than me,” Squirrel says.

“Yes,” he agrees, “but as you grow, we’ll share more with each other. But it’s important that you keep whatever innocent you can, for as long as you are able,” he touches the boy’s shoulder, “even if you don’t understand why right now.”

“It’s so I don’t end up like you,” Squirrel says, though there’s no malice in the words, “I think I’d like to be like you,” he says.

“Not in that way,” Lancelot tells him quickly, “you heard me in the tent.”

Squirrel nods and does his best not to look stricken at the memory. Lancelot is sorry it’s in his head now. Though if it helps Squirrel understand why he and Pym have tried so hard to keep whatever shred of innocence he has, perhaps it is not the worst thing. He would rather him have the screams of someone else than his own.

“Did you remember everything?”

“No,” Lancelot says, “I remembered some things.”

“That you’ll tell me when I’m older,” Squirrel sighs.

“I remembered I fought back,” Lancelot says, “I tried to escape, much as you did. When I was about your age. But I wasn’t successful.”

Squirrel looks up at him and his face finally cracks into a grin. It shouldn’t make Lancelot feel better, but he finds it does. He is the adult but Squirrel being proud of perhaps the only brave thing that he did in his former life means more than he anticipated it would.

“I knew you tried to escape,” he says, “I knew it. That’s what he meant when he said I reminded you of someone, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Lancelot says, “I didn’t get far.”

“That’s okay, you tried. You and Kaze keep telling me it’s okay to try and fail, it means you’re building a strong foundation. Besides, you didn’t have me to help back then. But that’s okay, we escaped together.”

“We did,” he agrees, “I’m glad for it.”

“Me too,” Squirrel says, “can I meet your not friend? Is he nicer than Tristain?”

It reasons that there would be a question there, but Lancelot knows there’s no comparison. He never met the other Ash Folk before she was bearing the consequences of his decisions. He cannot begrudge her wanting to see him dead for that. Even if it’s a fools errand. The Church wouldn’t accept her back if she brought all of their heads with her, not after months. Not unless they could ensure she would use the Fire for them and Lancelot still clings to the hope that she did not tell them either. There is more of a chance for Bedivere to return to his old standing. Which makes his behavior all the more puzzling.

“He wants to kill me less,” Lancelot says, “but he hasn’t paid the same consequences. You can meet him soon, after we have more information.”

That seems to satisfy him.

“Alright.”

“Now I need to speak to Guinevere,” he says, “I’ll find you afterwards.”

“Can’t I come?” He thinks of the spear and that conversation and shakes his head, “why not?”

“This is about womanly things,” he says.

“Oh, because you two didn’t come back last night,” Squirrel says, “I don’t think that’s such a big deal.”

“I don’t either, nor does Pym, Guinevere does,” he says, “we‘ve sworn loyal to her cause so I need to speak to her,” he nudges him, “go talk to Pym.”

Squirrel nods and runs off. Lancelot goes to find Guinevere. He finds her looking over a map. The Raiders were usually so chaotic, it’s strange to see her coming up with plans. But they aren’t fighting in quick bursts and retreating anymore, they’re aiming to take ground. It requires something different. She glances up at him, sighs and puts a stone where she was looking before folding her arms and meeting his gaze.

“Let me guess, you’re here to tell me you would never hurt my healer,” she says. He nods. He’s not expecting her to scoff, “I believe you would never hurt her in the way you’re thinking,” she says.

“I took my vows,” he says.

“Plenty of Paladins took their vows. You can ask the half Paladin children running around how that turned out for them,” she returns evenly, “I believe you when you say you took them and followed them. But you’re not a man of the cloth anymore.”

“I wouldn’t hurt her,” he says.

“That is the problem,” Guinevere snaps, “this isn’t a ‘would’ or ‘would not’ situation,” she tells him, “what did the church do to unmarried women who were rumored to have spent the night with someone?”

Lancelot feels his mouth go dry. He remembers the stocks and the shaming, the dismissal no matter how much pleading was done. Women were temptations, they were the ones who took the apple. He remembers and Guinevere sees the realization break over his face. She nods knowingly and moves forward.

“I want to build a world where those things don’t matter. But right now they do.”

“Not to the Fey—“

“I don’t think either of us can claim to be an expert on Fey culture,” she says, “but Nimue’s absence of a father would say otherwise,” she says, “regardless she isn’t in the Fey world, she’s in this one. Where we both know such things matter if she wants to get married.”

Lancelot is caught off guard, both by the statement itself and his own brief clap of panic. He doesn’t know why the prospect makes him feel ill, even for a moment. It must have something to do with how well the three of them work together. Though logically he knows that eventually there will be others. Squirrel won’t be a boy forever, if Guinevere is right Pym will eventually want to have a different kind of family.

“She might not after the thing on the docks—“

“What thing on the docks?”

Guinevere glances up at him.

“Some boy was hiding her on the docks, said they were destined to be married. That she was to be his good Christian wife or some nonsense,” she shrugs, “It was probably half the reason she was willing to get on my boat in the first place.”

Lancelot finds he has the oddest desire to go back and murder some boy on the docks near a village he burned down.

“Does she want to get married?”

“Do I look like I give a shit?” Guinevere snaps. Lancelot nods, “I don’t know,” she says, “we don’t talk about such stupid things. But if she did, you’re ruining her chances by spending the night with her.”

“She asked me to,” he says finally around the knot of something that settles in his stomach, “she’s not thinking of such things.”

“I know,” Guinevere says, “but one of you has to. And she’s thought of enough when it comes to you. You need to step up and think of her future.”

Lancelot knows he at least needs to speak to her. He’s learned that listening to third parties in this situation is only going to get him in trouble with her. But he’s not sure she’s thought about it anymore than he has. Not that she should have to, but that is the world they live in. Guinevere looks back at her map but her eyes are locked in one place. Waiting for his response.

“I’ll speak to her,” he says.

“Just don’t do it,” Guinevere says. Lancelot shakes his head and she makes a noise of disgust, “fine. Go speak to her. But if it continues you are compromising her prospects, unless—“

“Unless?”

“Unless you plan on marrying her yourself,” Guinevere says evenly.

Lancelot stares at her, surprised to even hear such a thing come out of her mouth. Guinevere looks up at him and the surprise on his face must catch even her off guard. For a split second she looks unsure. But she immediately pushes the look aside and meets his gaze directly.

“Why do you look so stunned? You’ve broken all of your Holy Vows. Did you not think about what comes after we win this war?”

“More fighting,” he says.

“You would think that,” she mutters, “we’re not fighting to just take back this land and defeat my father. That’s supposed to be the beginning of something better. Somewhere where we can live in peace. Including you,” he looks at her blankly, “have you given no thought to your life after this?”

The idea of peace or what comes after is not something that Lancelot has given any thought to. Peace is what comes when you’re dead, when you’ve served your purpose and been called to Heaven. Turning his back on those orders was supposed to be his damnation. More than anything else. Not that he had made it far on the road to Salvation, but he can say that he’s turned his back on it.

His scar twinges and he remembers what that Road was originally built on.

Not a miracle, not anything to do with God. Just a useful ability that he had since he was a babe. A lie. If the peace he had believed in his entire life was tied to a lie, did it exist at all? Guinevere looks at him sympathetically, which is a strange look considering how often she seems to want to kill him.

“I don’t know what peace looks like for you,” she says, “but there is a place for you where you don’t have to live by how many you kill,” she looks back at her map, “you should give some thought to what it looks like. Maybe one night when you aren’t making my healer ineligible for a good marriage.”

“I’ll speak to her,” he says.

“She can’t tell you what your happiness looks like,” Guinevere says, “no more than you can do that for her. You have to figure it out on your own.”

Annoyance starts to make his head ache. He’s not sure if it’s the weight of the past few days, the suggestion that he should decide something that affects Pym without speaking to her or the idea that something like their lives after the war wouldn’t come up. Maybe it’s all of it. There was a time in the very distant past when he would have nodded and swept out of the room, but instead he finds his voice.

“Have you spoke to Arthur about what your happiness looks like after this?”

It’s an odd thing to see someone look like they are drowning on dry land. But the wide eyes, the outrage, the choked breath all remind him of someone drowning. Trying to breathe air that isn’t there. Fighting against some invisible weight. Of course Guinevere is a fighter and he just manages to catch the stone she sends at his head.

“Out! And stay away from sleeping with my healer until you’ve sorted yourself out.”

Lancelot drops the stone on the ground and closes the door before she can thrown it at his head again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments/kudos/sweet tumblr messages. I was feeling somewhat down about the story yesterday and I appreciate everyone who reminded me why I shouldn’t. Let me know your thoughts! See you next chapter!


	54. Tinder: Part 12

Pym finds Father Bediever praying.

She waits quietly for him to finish. He looks at her and gets to his feet. There’s something unnervingly welcoming about him. Pym wonders if it’s an act or not and decides to treat it as such. She sets down the food she’s brought.

“Are you injured?” She asks.

“No,” he says, “just the usual odd bump one gets riding around.”

Pym nods, understanding that far better than she ever expected to. They serve the prisoners food that can be eaten without anything sharp, trying to minimize the hurt they might inflict. Though Tristain is always restrained, Father Bedivere seems less of a violent threat in the same way. He’s human for one thing. And a lone one handed former Paladin is deemed less dangerous. Pym isn’t sure if that’s a mistake or not.

“It must be hard for you to see your church filled with Fey,”. She says. He looks at her blankly, “aren’t you?”

“No, this village was filled with Fey and people,” he says, “this is how it should be, better than it collecting dust,” he catches her look, “you don’t believe me.”

“Of course not,” she says. He smiles, “I have yet to see a Paladin not want to kill me.”

“The Monk doesn’t,” he points out.

“He did when he was a Paladin,” she returns evenly.

“I would have too, when I wore the Red,” Bedivere says, “I serve them, they don’t count me among their ranks,” she tries very hard not to look at his hand, “Now I serve only God.”

She’s surprised to hear that, though if she looks she can see he still has the trappings of his Faith. Just in a different color. Though if she looks she can see his robes are a rougher fabric and have seen more wear, the beads he carries are more like her old prayer beads than Lancelot’s gemmed ones. She could see him easily in the regalia she’s seen the other Paladins in, but he isn’t.

“Are you wearing that shirt?” She asks.

“No,” he says, “I don’t kill in His name,” he explains, “it’s been years since I practiced any mortification of the flesh,” he sees her puzzled look, “flogging myself,” he explains, “I believe there are better ways to repent,” she nods, “why do you ask?”

“You’re not Fey, but you dying of an infection in this place would be against what we believe,” she says.

“I am grateful for your care,” he replies easily. He hesitates for a moment, “would it be too much to ask to speak to the Monk?”

“Yes,” she says, “but I’ll tell him you want to speak to him,” she says, “I’ll be back for your bowl,” she hesitates at the door and then turns, “do you not know his name?”

Father Bedivere at least has the grace to look embarrassed at the question. There’s a familiarity between them but Pym knows that only goes so far. She’s not surprised to find out they only called him some variation of Monk or Brother. She is surprised to realize she might be the second person he told his name to in a very long time. Father Bedivere shakes his head and Pym nods, slipping out of the room before he can ask her what it is.

She walks off until she comes to another door. There she squares her shoulders and opens the door to Tristain’s cell. Tristain is also praying but there is a growing frustration on her face. It’s a startling contrast to the serene way Father Bedivere prays. Pym sets down the tray as Tristain stands up, her chains rattling.

“You seem frustrated,” Pym says.

“You seem less frozen,” the Fey snaps.

“Thank you,” Pym says.

She’s learned that not letting Tristain’s ego get to her is half the battle. The Fey throws out barns and just hopes they will stick. Somewhere. Pym just pretends they don’t and that seems to rebound them to her. It’s a frustrating, tiresome task. But she has to remind herself that Tristain is in a very different position.

“Can you not hear the Lord?” She asks.

“Don’t patronize me, I’m not him,” she says.

“I was going to say if you couldn’t, there is a priest here,” she says, “he’s not a Paladin or one of your Guards, but he does believe there other ways to repent,” she shrugs, careful to keep her voice light, “it might make your back stop itching.”

Tristian takes the mouthful of food and Pym expects it to get spat back in her face. But she doesn’t. Pym feels momentarily bad for it but she also knows that they are going to have to do something with Tristain eventually. Lancelot’s words about what they tried to do on the beach to the little ones makes her think that the hatred Tristain feels for the Fey is more justified than they would like to admit. Though when she turns her head, there’s no such scar on her neck. Pym would assume she healed it, but from what Tristain has said and her body has shown, she was tortured far less than Lancelot.

“I don’t need it to stop,” she says. Pym nods. She hesitates for a moment, “what would I need to do to see the Priest?”

“Cooperate,” Pym says, “don’t make everything so difficult or try to kill whoever is near your hands,” she finishes and Pym stands up, “then we’ll let you see the Priest.”

“I’m never going to be loyal to your kind,” Tristain snaps, “I will always be loyal to the Church.”

“Maybe you should be loyal to God,” Pym suggests.

“And what would you know of God?” Tristain demands.

“Only what I’ve been taught,” she says, “if you let go of what you’ve been told by someone who hates us, you would see that we aren’t so different. But in the meantime, if you behave and cooperate we’ll let you see the Priest,” Tristain looks away, “at the very least it will give you something to do besides pray, stare at the walls and what movements you can manage in those chains.”

Tristain jerks her head away in something that could be a nod and Pym decides not to push her luck. Instead she walks out of the cell and returns to where Father Bedivere is being kept, sparing a brief pass of annoyance at how her life is suddenly all about members of the Church. When she goes to the other Chamber she’s surprised to see there’s another visitor there. She’s not surprised to see it’s Squirrel. Opening the cell he jumps up. Father Bedivere is slower to rise but he’s tucked into the far corner. It would take an impressive burst of speed for him to get to where Squirrel is.

“I’m sorry, the boy snuck in,” he says.

“I wanted to meet someone who knew—“

“Squirrel.”

He stops at the tone in her voice. Pym doesn’t know why it’s important for him not to say Lancelot’s name. She’s sure that he’ll find it out soon enough, if Squirrel hasn’t said anything already. It’s a name, it seems foolish for it to matter. But it does. If he didn’t have one with the Paladins, she doesn’t know if he wants to have one now. However charming Father Bedivere is, or if he is a good person which she doubts, Lancelot being nameless and that being alright strikes her as wrong.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“The boy told me nothing,” Bedivere says, “I swear. He heard me praying and wanted to know about that. That and someone who knew the Monk.”

Pym looks at Squirrel who nods and has no look like he’s lying. Just the earnest curiosity that gets him into trouble far too often.

“Don’t say his name,” Pym tells him quietly. Squirrel nods.

“He never lets us hear him pray,” he says.

Pym has noticed it as well, though whether it’s his preference to pray alone or he’s respecting the horrors those who believe have brought on them, she isn’t sure. But the more he does it the more curious she becomes. But that is something that seems wrong to ask about or draw attention to. If doing it as privately as possible is a comfort, she doesn’t want to risk that.

“I was explaining,” Bedivere says.

Pym puts her hand on his shoulder and feels the door open. She knows it’s Lancelot before she even turns around. Immediately shes unnerved by the realization before chastising herself for that feeling. They’ve spent more time together than she realized, that’s all. He looks mildly annoyed but resigned to the sight of them there and she feels her chin jerk up. The two may have a history but she has a responsibility. Squirrel just has trouble, but they have every right to be there.

“We can give you a moment.”

“I came to look for you,” Lancelot says, “they told me it was your turn to feed them.”

“Yes,” she says. Lancelot glances at his unbound hands, “I don’t think anyone thought to bind him. But he hasn’t done anything but pray,” he glances at Squirrel, “he snuck in.”

“I don’t have any reason to hurt any of you,” Bedivere says, “even if I could go back to the Paladins, I wouldn’t,” Lancelot turns and looks at him, “you have every right not to believe me—“

“You’re right,” he cuts in.

Pym looks at him and realizes it’s odd how silent he is. It shouldn’t be, when she thinks of him she thinks of a man who doesn’t talk as much as most. Not usually. He’s learned how to be quiet, that much is very clear. It’s clearer why as well, though she had guessed as much even without the details. It’s the stillness, she realizes. More even than the silence. Even though the man is in plain robes and talking with that familiarity, Lancelot holds himself still as though he’s waiting for permission or orders. Merlin’s words chime in her head. More blade than man.

“Lets go,” she says abruptly. Though Lancelot’s gaze doesn’t move, she knows he heard her, “come. If we need to restrain him we will. But hopefully he won’t give us a reason to,” she touches Lancelot’s arm, “come on.”

After a moment whatever part of him is waiting for orders seems to recognize these and he inclines his head and steps aside so they can get to the door, keeping his body between them and Father Bedivere. Pym tries not to feel nauseous at the idea of being the one to give orders and instead focuses on all of them getting to the other side of the door.

The moment the door closes Lancelot looks at Squirrel. Pym feels her breath catch, waiting for the anger to erupt. Her hand is still on his shoulder and she doesn’t move it. But the two of them just stare at each other for a long, silent moment.

“What? I said I wanted to meet him!”

“I said to wait for me,” Lancelot says.

“Well you were busy being told off by Guinevere and she was busy with Tristain. I’m tired of waiting while you two go off and have all the excitement.”

“Squirrel!” She gasps. Lancelot just keeps looking at him as Squirrel locks eyes with him. She doesn’t move her hand but she figures if Lancelot hasn’t snapped, he’s not going to, “that isn’t fair.”

“Life’s not fair, remember?”

“Enough,” Lancelot cuts in, “run around the church a dozen times.” Squirrel raises an eyebrow, “go.”

“That’s not going to take very long,” he mumbles.

“Go,” Lancelot repeats, “take Kaze and Bors with you. Then we can talk.”

“Let me guess, you need to talk to Pym,” he says.

“I am not the one out of control,” Lancelot says, “go. If I have to tell you a third time it’s two dozen.”

Squirrel sighs and storms off. If Lancelot’s anger is frightening, Squirrel’s is sickening. She has to remind herself he has every right to be angry. At the world, at them, that the fact he sees them as people he can express himself around is a good thing. But it’s not a thing she likes. She’s older now, but she won’t pretend to have very good memories of the teenage boys who used to pull at her hair and tease Nimue for her scars. Squirrel and Bors will be teenagers sooner rather than later. She looks at Lancelot.

“We shouldn’t talk here,” she says.

“I sent him to run to calm his mind,” he explains, “it can help to channel his anger.”

“That’s good thinking,” she says, “did you need to talk to me?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. She sees his eyes move to the door.

“You could go talk to him,” she says. He doesn’t say anything, “I could come with you?” He looks at her sharply, “if that would make it better. It seems like you want to talk to him. And he wants to talk to you.”

He doesn’t immediately shoot the idea down. Pym doesn’t know what on earth she can do, except maybe to remind him that he isn’t a sword anymore. She would just as much rather they didn’t go in and talk to him, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t intrigued. Lancelot takes a noticeably deeper breath and then nods.

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” she says, setting the bowl down and shifting her belt so the knife is hidden by her outer dress, “then we can deal with Squirrel and whatever else you want to talk to me about.”

Father Bedivere looks up in surprise when they both enter. His eyes search behind them but Pym closes the door. It’s clear that it’s just the two of them. He almost relaxes but not quite. Pym doesn’t blame him as Lancelot stiffens slightly. She finds it odd when he’s still dressed in such Fey clothes, she can’t imagine what someone who knew him for a long time would think of it. Neither of them says anything and the silence grows and grows until the tension of it makes her feel like her head is going to explode.

“Why should we believe you?” She asks, “besides your word.”

“I suppose swearing on my Faith wouldn’t be of much help,” he says. She shakes her head. He nods and reaches down to his beads, putting them on the ground and sliding them over. Lancelot picks them up and moves the beads along the cord. The thin light catches it and it shimmers brightly. Like the moon on the water. She’s seen it before. It’s wrapped around her wrist, though the beads conceal it. Moon Silk. Only given to those who have the favor of the Moon Wings, “as I said, even if I could go back, I wouldn’t.”

“You could have stolen this,” she says.

“There’s no knots,” Lancelot tells her, handing her the beads. She looks and realizes he’s not quite right. There’s a knot, but without magic she wouldn’t know that. The joins in the other places are equally impossible. They make the red silk of Lancelot’s look like a clumsy child tied them. He would have had to enslave a Moon Wing to have them do this, “you befriended the Fey.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” he starts.

“Tell us,” Lancelot says, “then you’ll get them back.”


	55. Tinder: Part 13

  
What happened after Bedivere left isn’t something Lancelot cared much about.

It’s not something he thought about either.

He was told that he was no longer fit to serve. That it was a pity but they were not to question His Almighty will. It had made sense to him that his injuries no longer made him fit to serve. Now as Lancelot looks back, he can see the cruelty. Not just in them but in his own actions. There are so many cruelties like that, things that would not happen here. He can barely ride away without someone greeting him, even if just to tell him to stay safe and bid him farewell.

“I should start by saying this isn’t my sword hand,” he says, gesturing to his missing hand, “it was cut off in the middle of a battle. I always fought with this hand. I never had much talent with double blades.”

Lancelot gives him a look to get on with it but Father Bedivere either doesn’t see it or just ignores it. Lancelot wants him to focus on what came after. He doesn’t know why he wants him to say as little about their time in the Paladins together as possible. But the idea of Pym hearing details about it is not something he wants to happen. Maybe it just seems wrong that she hears it from someone who isn’t him. They’ve talked about his early life and now, but there is a very large time that has been put aside. It’s not for Bedivere to open that. But Bedivere has no way of knowing that.

“And after you left?” He prods.

“Before I left I was having doubts,” he says, “about what we were doing. We were supposed to be converting people, offering them salvation. Burning them alive without a choice seemed wrong. When the Crown and their coin got involved, it seemed more like we were an army than a ministry.”

Lancelot doesn’t respond. Such questions weren’t permitted, both an army and a ministry functioned on faith. It also fit with his own needs. He resists the urge to trace the mark on his collarbone and feels the itch on his back start up again. He wants to do violence, to himself, to the Fey. It lurks under his skin like the monster Father told him was. Did all swords ache for blood? He pushes the desires aside but they are harder now to ignore. All the good intentions of telling him to listen to what he wants are worth little when those wants are so ugly.

“I only say these things to explain that the loss of my hand was one reason, it wasn’t the only one,” he says, “which should have been obvious, I suppose, when they made me caretaker of several churches and told me to travel the roads alone. I was attacked, left for dead. I deserved it after the things I had done,” he seems to get lost in the memory for a moment, “God saw fit to just make sure I was attacked at dusk and in the right place.”

“The Moon Wings found you,” Pym says.

“Yes,” Bedivere tells her, “they found me. Helped me. I thought they must not have known what I used to be but then they said they did. They said they helped all who were hurt in their lands, it was their way,” his voice softens, “I wasn’t expecting such kindness.”

Lancelot looks away from the gentle smile at the kindness on Bedivere’s lips. Even Pym looks somewhat stricken at his words. Lancelot supposes there’s nothing to do but get them on the same page about at least one thing. Pym knows. And Bedivere is still a Paladin in some way. Neither of those things make it easier.

“I was dispatched to cleanse the Moon Wings,” he says.

“What?” the color drains from his face, “but they’re harmless—“

“The Church felt differently,” Lancelot says.

“The Church or the Crown?” Bedivere demands. Lancelot regards him silently. He’s expecting it when Bedivere gets to his feet in a quick, fluid movement that reminds him why they were paired together so often during training. Pym cringes back but he holds himself still, “how?”

“I burned down their forest while they slept,” he says.

Bedivere’s features twist and he looks away. Lancelot is only beginning to understand being overcome with emotion like that. But someone like Bedivere, a human from a good family, has always had the luxury of such free expression. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Pym’s fingers curl in her skirt. He glances over at her. Her lips are pressed together and she’s looking hard at the floor. It’s a reminder of what he has done. Her eyes dart up and lock with his, but her expression doesn’t change. He was not expecting it to, but he finds the chastising stinging all the same.

“They died quickly,” he says.

“Well thank God for that mercy,” Bedivere says sarcastically, finally turning back to face him, “I left them because I couldn’t stand being around those I had done such harm to. How can you stay around the Fey?”

“I am Fey,” Lancelot reminds him.

Pym’s eyes dart between them but there isn’t any surprise on Bedivere’s face. Lancelot doesn’t begrudge him forgetting. Denying his Fey side and speaking of it only with hatred is how Bedivere has known him. Demon-born was how he was described, even the simple act of saying he was Fey was unheard of. There was no difference in the eyes of God. The truth was asking Gawain why he didn’t tell them was entirely a test for the Fey. There was no risk to him. But Gawain hadn’t known that and he kept his secret. Lancelot wonders if things had played out differently, he may not have seen any loyalty in the Green Knight. He may not have listened.

“I made sure he stayed,” Pym speaks up, “Fey believe all of us are brothers. Though that doesn’t always extend to man-bloods,” she explains, “I wanted to honor our ways and keep them alive,” she explains, “but Lancelot has more than earned his place among us.”

“Right,” Bedivere says with a tight smile, “of course—“

“I’m acting High Summoner of the Sky Folk,” Pym says, laying her wrist with the beads across her lap. There is a tone of authority in her voice that makes Lancelot pause, “if I say he is one of us, you would do well to listen.”

The smile vanishes off Bedivere’s face and he lowers his head. It’s instinctive. Lancelot has to fight the urge to do it as well. There’s a tone soldiers know to follow, he and Bedivere have both had it drilled into them until it is a part of their being. It’s essential for the battlefield. It’s useful elsewhere. How Pym manages to summon it, he doesn’t know. He half thinks there’s magic involved but her scent hasn’t changed. Though he’s been the subject of her authority, hearing her use it on someone else is an entirely different thing. When she glances at the bench, it only takes a moment before Bedivere is back and seated again.

“I’m sorry, I know you were under orders,” he says.

“That doesn’t change what I’ve done,” Lancelot says. Bedivere nods, “I’m sorry for it,” he adds, “they didn’t deserve it,” he shifts his weight, “none of the Fey did.”

“No, they did not,” Bedivere says, “including your people.”

Lancelot remember the beach, remembers his uncle. He remembers the knife. He isn’t sure Bedivere is right about the Ash Folk. He doesn’t have the words for it. A heavy silence hands between them as they sit under the weight of their crimes and the sadness it’s brought. Each breath feels as though it’s a gift they do not deserve, not when so many others don’t have it.

“So since then you’ve just been checking on the churches?” Pym’s voice cuts in. Bedivere looks at her and nods, “why? If you recognize what the Paladins did is wrong, why do you still do this?”

“I still believe in God,” he says, “I’m still a man of Faith. A man of the Cloth,” he explains, “I gave my life to God a long time ago. It’s listening to other men’s interpretations of his Word that was the problem. The word itself is not.”

Pym considers this for a moment and nods. Lancelot is surprised she doesn’t protest more, but at the same time he isn’t. Since he started explaining their beliefs to her, she’s been the first to see the similarities. Like two threads weaving through opposite corners of a tapestry. He shifts forward as she rises and walks over to Bedivere, holding out the beads. He takes them slowly, surprised at the gesture. His eyes flick to where her knife is but he just puts the beads carefully in his lap with a murmur of thanks. The way he holds the beads fills Lancelot with a familiar longing ache, like when they would pray and God would be silent. Though now he supposes it doesn’t matter.

“Have you renounced your vows?” He asks.

“Yes,” Lancelot says. Pym moves and he glances over to see the look she’s giving him, “I was also excommunicated.” Bedivere looks confused at the admission and Lancelot supposes that there’s no time like now to explain, “Father Carden is dead, so is Brother Salt. I’ve been excommunicated. The boy you met before is an orphan they were going to test. I killed a dozen Trinity Guard and escaped with him. I’ve killed more since.”

There’s far less horror but no less shock on his face and Lancelot recounts what has happened. That more than anything speaks to where his loyalties have shifted. Lancelot thinks he should be glad but he’s not sure what to feel. If he would feel anything recounting this to someone who knew him as well as any other back when he felt very differently. He tries to push his emotions away as he does.

“I’m sorry you were excommunicated. You tried harder than any of us to please Him,” Lancelot ignores the bitter taste in the back of his throat and the familiar longing to hear Him, “He was never there.”

Lancelot feels the words like a blow. There’s only kindness in Bedivere’s face. Kindness and pity. Whatever he was expecting, it was not that. But the words echo through him. God was not there. The Paladins were not doing His Work. He knew it, but hearing it from someone who has always seemed to hear His Grace as easily as breathing is painful. He can’t say there was true trust or respect or friendship, but there is a reason Bedivere being kicked out of the Paladins didn’t result in his excommunication.

“We should let you get some rest,” Pym says. Lancelot grabs the lifeline and nods, getting to his feet.

“Before you go—“ Bedivere hesitates before resolve shows on his face, “may I know your names?”

Lancelot isn’t expecting the request. He looks at Pym who gives a small shrug.

“I’m Pym,” she says. Bedivere nods. Pym looks at him sympathetically, opening her mouth to interrupt but Lancelot turns first.

“Lancelot,” he says, “my name is Lancelot.”

Bedivere nods and Pym touches his arm, together they leave the cell. He steps away from her and presses his hand against the wall. He wants to strike it until his knuckles are bloody. Until some measure of broken skin clears his head. But he doesn’t. He forces himself not to. He presses into the wall and pushes himself away before he does something foolish. Pym watches him quietly.

“I think you should join Squirrel,” she says finally.

“It would take more than that,” he admits.

“What would it take?” She asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head.

He knows. But that’s not something he can do. He remembers aching for the day when he could perform his own mortifications. It’s been years since he suffered the feeling for any long duration of time. After months it feels like he shouldn’t have to keep feeling it. But logically he knows that his past will always be connected to it.

“I have an idea,” Pym says, “but I’m going to have to touch your back. May I?” He considers for a moment and then nods. Pym looks at him for another moment and then let’s out a breath, “you’re going to have to sit down,” she says.

He kneels.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting but it’s Pym, so he does it. And though he aches for the flog, the past few days have shown him how twisted that is. God was never there asking for his flesh. It was always Father. And before that it was his own people who asked for it. Aching for it no longer feels like strength, but he does it all the same. He feels her touch his shoulder and it’s startling.

“Are you—“

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Alright,” she tells him and lays her hand on his shoulder fully.

Near the scar.

He tries not to shy away and focuses instead on holding himself still. That, at least, is familiar. It’s always the first lash that is the hardest not to flinch from, until he finds the rhythm. He forces himself to hold still and expel the breath from his lungs.

When he does, Pym digs her thumbs into his shoulder.

He’s surprised and nearly moves but she sets her feet and pushes harder into his muscle. It’s not a pleasant feeling, the itch still scurries under his skin. But it’s—something. It’s a language he understands. Better than any words at least. It gives him something to focus on.

“Put your hands on your legs,” she says. He looks back over his shoulder and does it, bracing his back. She lines her thumbs to some point at the base of his neck and digs them in. Something hot and almost painful races across his shoulders and it’s like having an itch scratched. At the very least it feels like he can breathe, even if only just, “better?”

He nods.

She continues to find spots that make his muscles burn and then loosen. His world seems to narrow to her fingers and the burn they stoke from his muscles. The sensation eclipses even her scent. He loses track of time in the haze until she flattens her hand against the bare skin of his neck. He realizes his breathing is unsteady and his eyes are shut. He remedies both quickly, but her hand pulls away all the same.

“Your back is spasming,” she says, “I don’t want to create more knots. Did that help?” He nods, not fully trusting his voice, “good.”

“Thank you,” he says, slowly getting to his feet. His head feels clearer than he can remember it feeling in some time. Thank you seems like an insufficient response, “how—“

“Most of it was in the book,” she says.

He glances around, half expecting to see Guinevere or one of them there, but it’s just them in the hallway. Everyone else is locked behind doors the phone are not meant to see out of. Despite the lingering haze, Lancelot forces himself back into the present. All of the things crashing around cannot take precedence over the things that are truly about her. Though if he thinks about it, most of the things that affect him are affecting her. Her presence there just confirms it. Their lives are more tangled together than he’s previously considered. It seems like a lifetime ago they were talking about the what if’s when they rejoined the Fey and how her and Squirrel’s friendship with him would be inferred.

“Thank you,” he repeats and she smiles, “what you heard in there—“

“It’s nothing you haven’t told me or I didn’t already know,” she says, “are you alright with what he said?”

“No,” he admits and she nods, “but that’s something for later. We need to talk about what Guinevere and I spoke about,” he says. She glances over his shoulder and he turns but it’s blissfully empty. That or it’s Gawain who has the grace to remain hidden.

“We should go elsewhere then,” she says, “the room?”

He thinks of Guinevere’s words and shakes his head.

“Outside,” he says.

She gives him a curious look but nods. Trustingly, she follows him into the sun. They watch as Squirrel jogs past, followed by Bors. Lancelot looks up to see Kaze supervising. She shoots him an unimpressed look but waves off his mouthed apology. Pym looks at him curiously.

“So what did you two talk about?” She asks.

“Guinevere says I’m ruining your marriage prospects,” he says, “if we sleep next to each other, people will think that I’ve taken your virginity and no-one will want to marry you. She suggested we sleep apart.”

Pym looks at him for a long moment and then doubles over laughing. Lancelot isn’t fooled, there’s an edge to the laughter that he dislikes. It’s a brittle thing that begs more questions than it answers.

“Sorry,” she says, “you know, never hearing about me ruining my marriage prospects is something I was quite looking forward to.”

“Are you not—“

“Would it matter?” She shoots back. He shakes his head. She looks at him for a hard moment and then shrugs, “I am,” she adds quickly, “but it shouldn’t matter. And my prospects don’t. I have a disgraced family and no dowery, if I’ve been bedded is practically irrelevant.”

The question of how to make them matter dies on his lips. Pym doesn’t talk about her family and considering his role in everything, asking about them seems callous at best. Whatever he’s inferred from what she’s said or how she’s acted or her general appearance, he’s not expecting her to describe them that way. She seems to have belatedly realized she’s said it and sighs.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He offers.

“No,” she says and then presses her hand to her forehead, “but I suppose we should. I haven’t because—“ she waves her hand.

“Because of what I did,” he says.

She nods.

“We don’t have to,” he repeats but keeps the force out of his tone, trying to make it as much a question as he knows how to. She shakes her head.

“I know, but I think we should,” she says, “I think I need to.”

He nods and sits.

After a moment she joins him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments/kudos/tumblr messages! Your feedback is so important and I love hearing from you. Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter and I will see you in the next!


	56. Tinder: Part 14

  
Pym barely knows where to start.

She’s annoyed at Guinevere for broaching the topic with Lancelot instead of her, but she also recognizes that Lancelot went to her and Guinevere did what she always does. Addressed the problem as directly as possible. It’s a fair assumption to make, she knows she should be grateful to have friends who care about her like that. But some horrible part of her is annoyed that they don’t know she doesn’t care about such things. Even if she hasn’t told them.

“I’m sorry,” she says to Lancelot, “I don’t even know where to start.”

He nods and waits patiently. Finally her own indecisiveness gets the better of her and she gives up, figuring any place she chooses will be better than not starting at all. She pushes her hair behind her ears.

“I pretended to be a healer,” she says, “Dof said that Fey were good healers and so I told Guinevere that I was the best healer in three villages. I knew I wasn’t, I hadn’t healed anything in my life. But before the High Summoner did most of the healings we had a healer in the village. I was related to him,” she fights the urge to stumble over her words, “for a while we all thought he was Nimue’s father.”

Surprise shows on his features but it’s not funny. None of this is funny. It’s picking at a scab she hoped had been scarred over with everything else that went on. She hates doing. She hates doing it in a fine dress too. With the beads around her forearm. It feels wrong, like she’s dressing up as something she could have been if things had been different. But it’s not her. And she’s spent her time refusing to indulge in such dreams because what ifs are luxuries that don’t exist in her world. Or didn’t.

“Nimue and I were raised to be kin,” she says, “at first. But when her father fled without telling anyone why, he left the village without a healer. And he left the High Summoner,” she bites her lip, “no-one thought well of him. No-one really liked my family either but they didn’t have to when we were useful.”

“You were outcasts,” he says.

“Yes,” she replies, “we lost everything. I was too young to remember much of how things were before. And I was far more worried about Nimue having lost her father. I didn’t understand what it meant for us,” she explains, “not that such things really mattered. We scraped by,” she looks back at him, “I’m sorry, this feels ridiculous to talk about considering everything that’s happened.”

Familial embarrassment doesn’t compare to what he’s been through. No-one physically harmed her or convinced her she was a monster destined to burn in hell. People knew her name. The worst they could say was that she had poor judgement, like most of her family seemed to. The worst that happened was a few cold nights and a few winters with less food than was probably healthy in the beginning.

But Lancelot doesn’t voice that it is. He keeps looking at her intently, listening to her. Pym almost wishes he would tell her to stop being so foolish. But she knows that’s also her looking for a reason not to tell him.

“My parents tried to get together whatever they could for a dowery. They hoped between that and the memory of what we used to be, they could arrange a good marriage for me. But no-one was interested in potentially angering the High Summoner or the Hidden.”

“Would she have done that?” He asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” she says, “but the Sky Folk wouldn’t risk it. Not for so little standing and what my dowery was. Besides I was considered odd for being friends with Nimue. But we had been told we were kin, it didn’t make sense to either of us to stop being friends,” she shrugs, “I can see how it would make sense for me to marry one of the Sky Folk but they remember everything so none of them would want to. If my virginity matters then the rest of it does too, I suppose.”

He’s silent for a long moment but he doesn’t act angrily or do anything she’s bracing for him to do.

“What about the boy on the docks?”

“Aaron?” He nods, “Aaron was a fishmonger I traded with sometimes. He always smelled like fish guts. But after I escaped I figured the smell would keep the Paladins away and I knew he had traps bigger than me so I could hide there,” she thinks about him, “when his mother tried to kick me out he said God had decided we should be wed and I was like her own daughter. He saved my life,” she sighs, “but I didn’t think anything had brought us together except my ability to undo knots and the fact that I was closest to the tent. I didn’t want to be his wife,” she toys with her fingers, “I didn’t want to be anyone’s wife, really. I wanted to be more than just an arranged marriage. Which—“ she sighs, “isn’t something someone in my position should do.”

“You wanted more for yourself,” he says.

Heat floods her face and she nods. It’s a shameful thing, it’s something that she couldn’t admit to anyone. She shoved it into some dark place and told herself she wanted a quiet village life with a husband and little ones over and over again. Until she almost believed it. Though now that no-one is reminding her to brush her hair for the market so a merchant might see it in the sun and want to marry her, she can see how it was never truly what she wanted. She had always braided her hair anyway and told herself it was practical. Or that she would take it down when they got there. Yet the braid always stayed up until she was back home.

“I thought that was how the Fey worked,” Lancelot says, “not like the world of men.”

“It is and it isn’t,” she says, “it is if your family isn’t poor or disgraced. It’s not if a good marriage is the only way they can one day get comfortably through the winter.”

“That sounds hard,” he says.

Pym raises her eyebrows.

“Your people tried to cut your throat,” she points out, “my family trying to make sure I had a good marriage—doesn’t really seem to compare.”

Lancelot considers this for a moment and then shrugs. Pym almost wishes that he would tell her she’s right. She hates the feeling bubbling in her chest as she thinks about it, she’s always hated the feeling. Her family cared about each other, even if she was a trouble maker. Maybe one day their patience would have run out, but it hadn’t. Not yet. Now it never would. Did the dead even care if she married? She doesn’t think so. It feels like the air is stuck in her lungs so she focuses instead on pushing it out, not expecting the tremble that comes with it.

“Your family tried to make you do something you didn’t want to,” he says.

“I don’t know how you can equate those two,” she tells him.

“I know how it feels to be mad at the dead,” he says quietly.

“I’m not—“ she starts and cuts herself off.

It feels like the cork on a bottle has been pulled out. The entire time she’s thought that her sorrow would be the thing that drowned her, the thing she had to keep buried so deep down. But Lancelot names the feeling without even trying. Lancelot of all people, who seems more out of touch with his emotions than anyone. He names it and she suddenly feels it in a wave. If she didn’t know better she would think it had to be an ability of his. It feels like it comes on like Fey Fire.

One minute she’s staring at the ice glowing green and the next it’s shattered.

“Pym?”

She turns away, it’s hard to see his face as her eyes fill. But they’re not the usual tears she sheds. She’s so angry she can barely think straight. She’s angry at her parents, at the village, at her uncle, at everyone who left, who stayed—at Nimue. She’s angry at everyone. And she’s angry at herself for feeling that way about people who have died, largely through no fault of their own.

“I’m sorry, this wasn’t even what we were talking about,” she says, wiping at her face, “I loved all of them. I don’t even know why I’m angry.”

“They left.”

“How are you doing that?” She demands, almost managing to stop the tears through surprise alone, “do the Ash Folk read minds? You barely seem to understand your own emotions. How are you explaining mine?”

It’s a horrible thing to say and she realizes it the moment the words slip out of her mouth. Or the moment she says them. They don’t slip out, she means to say them. But she shouldn’t. Not after everything that he’s just remembered. She’s supposed to be helping people and healing them. Not yelling at them. Especially him.

“It’s not mind reading, I just listened to you,” he says.

“I didn’t tell you I was mad at them. I didn’t know myself.”

“You were mad when I suggested leaving,” he points out, “even when we first met.”

“It’s been months,” she says.

“I listened,” he repeats.

She doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not something she expected. Not from him. Of all of them, she’s the only one who isn’t a great warrior or magic user or both. She’s a half decent healer who just seems to be standing in the right place at the right time. She’s always just called it luck. Her family used to joke that she was the only one who had any of it in their family, that Jonah must have taken all of it away or the Hidden had only been called to curse the adults. She’s very used to people having a lot going on. Though the truth is she’s not used to having more than one friend.

“Thank you for listening,” she says, trying to will herself back under control, “I hope you’re not thinking about leaving and just not saying it, I think that might be worse.”

“I don’t keep things from you,” he points out. She nods, that much is true. His hand hesitates for only a moment before it lays over hers.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, pulling her hands away to wipe at her face, “this is madness. I’m not trying to weep on you.”

Lancelot seems to consider this for a moment before he slowly shifts his weight closer. Seeming it sense she needs her hands, he puts his arm lightly around her shoulders. Pym realizes he’s moving slowly in case she wants to run. She’s glad because at the moment her skin itself feels too tight. She doesn’t think being held would help the situation.

“I’ve bled and sweat on you. Constantly.”

She isn’t expecting his dry humor and it manages to get some semblance of a laugh out of her.

“That’s not funny,” she scolds.

“And screamed in your ear.”

“You did,” she says, “I can’t imagine what any of them would say if they knew you weren’t petrified of getting cried on,” she shakes her head, “especially by me.”

“Arthur and Squirrel both cried on me.”

“Oh, well, you must be an expert.”

His lips quirk up and it feels alright. It’s not like drowning. It hurts and it’s difficult, but her head remains above the water. If she tries, she can still breathe. Not easily and not without discomfort, but every breath is slightly better than the last. She doesn’t know how any of them would think of the person tied to all of this being the one to hold her. And she finds the thought angering and also aching. Because she realizes that she doesn’t truly care. No more than she cared about their thoughts when it came to Nimue. Maybe she is odd, but she can also see that she’s lucky to have figured that out. Lucky to have the friendships she has. That she didn’t let everything else get in the way of seeing the truth and what really matters.

“Do you care about us sleeping together?” She asks, “aside from it going against Guinevere.”

“I told her I had to speak to you about it,” he says.

The tears come back harder when she realizes he really did listen. Even if she doesn’t have a voice or had no loyalty sworn to her. He meant what he said on the ship and in the field. So much has happened she’s pushed all of that to the back of her head. Not as deep down as she’s pushed other things but it hasn’t been at the forefront of her mind. Lancelot keeps his arm around her shoulder but now when his fingers tighten on her slightly, it doesn’t feel so bad. Even as the lump in her throat tightens. But it’s not drowning.

It’s just sobs.

She can still breathe.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she gets out before burying her face in her hands and giving into the emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I had a few people ask if we were close to the fluffy romance parts. And I wanted to say that if you think about it this way where we want to go to a carnival of fluff that is across the state, we are across the state and just outside the parking lot for the carnival. We’re a lot closer but we aren’t there juuuuust yet. Soon though, I promise.
> 
> Thank you for the comments/kudos/messages. They are so appreciated and I love hearing from everyone. See you next chapter!


	57. Tinder: Part 15

“How likely is it that the Church will come for them?” Arthur asks.

“Tristain is excommunicated and Bedivere is worthless to them,” Lancelot says.

“They could be used as a justification,” Arthur reasons, “if they need to paint us in a worse light to the people.”

Lancelot can see the logic in what he says but he feels entirely out of his depth. Opinions have never mattered in his world. There are people who agree and heathens. That is it. He’s always had the might of the Vatican and believed he had the power of God Almighty behind him. He’s never had the kind of disadvantages they are now facing. Guinevere is an exiled princess with no claim to the throne. He is in opposition to everything that the Church stands for. Even Arthur’s Sword pulling is questionable. Nimue was the Chosen One. She has given the Sword to him, that doesn’t mean he is now the bearer of that greatness.

“They don’t need to do that,” he says.

“Of course not,” Arthur says, “we’re hated enough, but painting themselves as they victim could be powerful.”

“They could make them martyrs,” he realizes. Arthur nods. The thought is an unsettling one, “Cumber and Uther are more vulnerable without God on their side. Though Cumber has Guinevere’s focus.”

“He does,” Arthur agrees.

“How do you turn people from God?”

Arthur sighs but he doesn’t say that there is no answer. The solider in Lancelot is intrigued. The Holy Man in him is horrified. Somewhere in those warring sides, he hopes, is the man he truly is. But at the moment they have wasted enough time on his self discovery.

“It’s not a matter of turning them from God, it’s turning them from the the Church,” he says, “we have to get them to believe in Guinevere.”

“That won’t work,” he says, “these people are not comfortable with a women leading them,” he glances over at Guinevere who is speaking to a Raider, turning a knife point into the table as though drilling a hole, “the Church taught them women are not involved in violence. Right or wrong it is what people follow.”

Arthur nods. His eyes drag to Guinevere and she looks up. When their eyes lock, the knife twists with far more force. Arthur holds her gaze for a moment before he looks away. Lancelot notes the exchange quietly. Things have not recovered between them. They seem to be barely civl, outright hostile or filled with awkward, rough gestures of care. Neither of them seems to know what to do with the other.

“You should speak to her,” Lancelot voices.

“We’ve said all we can to each other,” Arthur says.

“Did you do what she wanted?”

Arthur looks at him, considering his words for a moment before he sighs. Lancelot knows that sigh. They all seem to have one for him, though when things are tense it comes up more. It’s only a recent thing that he’s learned he doesn’t need to blow the air out of his lungs or close his jaw in anticipation of a strike. He knows it but it doesn’t stop him from tensing slightly.

“It’s not as simple as that,” Arthur says, “besides it’s not something that’s important right now. We are fighting a war.”

Lancelot thinks about Squirrel’s anger and frustration and Pym’s grief and even Merlin’s pain and isn’t sure he agrees. Guinevere’s words about there being a life after the fighting ring in his ears. Despite knowing that there is a war and that needs to be the priority, he doesn’t think of the time he’s spent in the past few days as a waste. He can’t. He feels clearer headed than he has in a while.

“Bedivere might be useful,” he says. Arthur looks at him curiously, “if he proves loyal.”

“Are you vouching for him?” Arthur asks.

“I think speaking to him would be a good idea,” Lancelot says, “it’s not for me to vouch for him.”

He isn’t an adult Fey in their eyes, which is fair. He’s proven himself in some regards, but his standing is still affected by his past deeds. Maybe not to all of the little ones, but there are a handful of them and of the Fey who distrust him. Raiders as well. Arthur knows it too. Everyone knows it. After what he has done, Lancelot cannot begrudge anyone for distrusting him. And though he realizes that moments where that interferes with what he wants will happen, he still finds himself annoyed by it.

“But you trust him,” Arthur says.

“I don’t think he’s lying when he says his loyalty is elsewhere,” he says. Arthur gives him a curious look, “Kaze didn’t cut off his sword hand. Others have been hurt worse and not sent to such a dangerous life.”

“And you’re sure it has nothing to do with you wanting a kindness from the Paladins?” He asks, “no-one would think strangely of you for wanting that.”

Lancelot’s immediate reaction is to deny it, but he makes himself wait for a moment and consider Arthur’s words. Eventually he shakes his head.

“The Paladins that would mean anything from are dead,” he says.

Arthur gives him an understanding look and Lancelot knows he does. It’s a strange thing, to want something from the dead. To need something from them. He understands Pym’s and Squirrel’s anger a lot better than he wishes he did. Certainly a lot better than he would have admitted to understanding a few months ago. But if anyone here understands what it is to be angry at the dead and the burdens they pushed onto you, it’s Arthur.

“Did anyone else speak to him?” Arthur asks, “you shouldn’t go in there alone.”

“Squirrel snuck in,” he says, “when I spoke to him, Pym was with me.”

“We’ll speak to her before anyone else goes in there,” Arthur tells him, “is Squirrel alright?”

“He’s fine. But he’s angry,” Lancelot says.

“Rightfully so,” Arthur agrees, “it’s a wonder any of you were willing to stay and help build a new world. I’m not sure I would have been so brave.”

“Pym is alright too,” he adds.

“Good,” Arthur says, “I imagined she was if the two of you were in there together.”

Lancelot wishes things were as simple as he’s making them seem. He cannot say if either of them would be so angry if they had never met. Pym seems to have knots and knots of emotions about the life she was in and the one she wanted. And Squirrel is close to the age when all boys seem to be angry. At themselves, at the world, at their fathers—it’s a very long list. But he knows that both of them are feeling as they do now because of what he has done, even if they all acknowledge that it is not that simple. He doesn’t think helping them absolves him. But helping them remains something he wants to do.

“You look troubled,” Arthur comments, “more troubled than usual.”

“As do you,” Lancelot replies.

“Perhaps we have the same kind of trouble.”

Lancelot glances a Guinevere whose eyes dart from Arthur to him. They narrow and Lancelot imagines they are going to need a new table soon.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

“Of course not,” Arthur replies quickly, meeting Lancelot’s sharp look with a smile that almost makes him long for the days when he was feared, “we’ll talk to Bedivere and see if he can be of use.”

Lancelot nods his thanks. He tells himself that there are many complicated pieces to this. He needs patience. True patience. He’s more used to being patient when he’s ordered to be. By someone that he trusts the same way he trusts God. The scar on his shoulder aches, reminding him where that loyalty came from. Longing for the simplicity of it when he understands the cost feels shameful.

It feels weak.

His stomach twists when he realizes the itch on his back has returned. Which only makes the frustration and weakness feed on itself. It reminds him of the flog and how you had to be mindful of your strikes, lest you get lost in the mortification and actually hurt yourself. It was rare that he had to heal himself from it, but not unheard of. His jaw clenches and he pulls his hands from the table, just to be safe. He has more control but the Fire also comes easier now. As if it’s making up for lost time. He knows they are supposed to be discussing their next plans but he cannot stop himself as he walks out of the room and back outside.

The moment he gets back from the church, it feels as though he can breathe again. He looks back at the building. He’s been in there before with only the most mild of effects, except in the one room. Now it feels as though the entire building is rejecting him. He would hear stories of Holy places rejecting heretics. His skin doesn’t bubble and no blood flows from his eyes, but he feels as though his skin is burning. Turning from his vows would always have consequences, but he has held onto his faith. In whatever way he can. He mentally attempts to pray and nothing occurs. He doesn’t burst into flames as he’s half expecting to.

“What’s wrong?”

His eyes fly open to see Kaze standing there. Lancelot knows he owes her an apology for pushing the little ones on her entirely the past few days, but getting his throat to work seems out of his abilities at the moment. Anyone else might be afraid of him but she’s tangled with worse and walks over.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I cannot be in the Church,” he confesses, the words coming out of him in a single breath.

“Of course you can be,” she says, “you don’t want to be. There’s a difference,” he braces his hands on his knees. She gives him a long, silent look, “you’re not this stupid.”

He looks up at her, still focusing on breathing.

“That building is now rejecting you? Not before? Only after your friend cried about the horrible things you did in the name of it?”

She has a point. He straightens up, feeling the heat start to drain from his face. There’s a logic to her words, though it’s not as simple as she makes it sound. It’s not just Pym. It’s Pym and Squirrel and Arthur—it’s so many people. It’s not rejection, it’s guilt. He’s felt the guilt of what he’s done before, but he’s never felt the guilt while realizing the extent of what was done to him. His entire body is a patchwork of it. How is he to carry the guilt of what he has done and the guilt of what was was done to him? He’s spent a lifetime believing in God’s path, but now he wonders what kind of God would do that to a child. If there is any God at all.

“I cannot be so weak—“

“No, you cannot go back in there,” Kaze cuts in, “if praying doesn’t stop you from putting out the Fire, you risk burning everyone to the ground.”

She turns and his hand streaks out. But Kaze is not a boy, not a child, she’s not even the warrior he struck down. She knows his tricks. His foundation has been rocked in every way that a foundation can be. It’s no surprise that when his hands lock around her wrist he suddenly finds himself bent back over, his arm pinned behind his back. She just holds him there, strong enough to ache but not strong enough to do any damage.

“If you’re not weak, then admit you going back in that place puts them in danger.”

He clenches his jaw.

Kaze waits a moment before realizing his silence is not going to change unless she causes him more pain. Lancelot half hopes that she will. For a moment she does, twisting his arm and the burn of it makes him breathe finally. He cannot see her face but she can hear him breathe. She drops his arm like he is a burning heretic and steps back. There is enough respect between them that she doesn’t look at him with outright disgust but it is a near thing.

“Stay there,” she says and walks away. When she comes back leading Pym, he’s not surprised. Her eyes are still reddened but that doesn’t stop her from walking forward. What does surprise him is Merlin’s presence there. Immediately something in him recoils. But Merlin only gives him a grin that’s more teeth than kindness, “show them what you did.”

“What?” He says.

“What’s the best way to take something bitter?” Kaze asks Pym, her eyes not leaving his.

“One gulp?” Pym says.

“Show them the village,” Kaze says, “you did as much horror there as you did in that building. Then we can see if you can set foot in that church without panicking.”

“Why them?” He asks.

“You opened this box together, you need to empty it together,” she says, “that is what we believe. Try it.”

Lancelot looks at the pair of them. Merlin is not someone he wants there but the druid looks at him with an intensity that begs many questions. Lancelot isn’t foolish enough to think that something isn’t there. And Pym has met every sin with a high head and more honesty than he’s sure he deserves. So he nods.

“I’m going too,” Squirrel says, appearing as if by a dream, “and don’t tell me it isn’t safe.”

“It’s not,” Lancelot says. Squirrel glares and he jerks his head, “let’s go.”


	58. Tinder: Part 16

Pym isn’t sure who needs to be watched closer.

She understands that Squirrel would follow them anyway and this is better, but she doesn’t want him to see this and think of home. She doesn’t want to either. But things happened so quickly there was no time to debate it. Besides the village was, at least initially, built more by men. But as they move into it, it’s less of a comfort. The ash is there still but along with it are the skeletal remains of other structures.

Logically, she knows that the dryness in her eyes is because of her earlier crying.

It still makes her think of home.

She doesn’t remember much about it, not because she’s blocked it out but because it happened so quickly. She took in the chaos, not even sure where to begin and the next she was upside down grabbing madly for Nimue’s arm. The smoke and the blood rushing to her head made everything hard to see. Even if she thinks back to it burning down and searches her memory very hard, the most she can say is she may have seen a flash of green. But she’s not sure if that was him or her mind playing tricks on her.

“It really is incredible to think the kind of destruction you could have wrought if you had used your Fire,” Merlin says.

“Were there any survivors here?” Squirrel asks.

“There were at first,” he says.

Pym looks at him. His voice has taken on the hoarse edge that seems to come out in stressful situations. It doesn’t take much to guess at who was sent to hunt those survivors down. She looks at the remains of a house where a pot still sits on a hearth. It’s an almost painful reminder of the world that existed before their arrival. She thinks of her own home and what must have been on there, the fight that she had with her mother earlier in the morning about not taking too long at the market. Maybe in the ruins of a home back at their village there was a pot with a lot of questions.

At the same time, it’s impossible not to think of the chaos and confusion and the fear and not think of Lancelot as a young boy, terrified of both his rescuers and the family that had tried to kill him to keep their secret.

“I’ve done worse,” Merlin remarks.

“You look far too interested,” Pym says.

“Aren’t you?” The Druid challenges, “have you ever seen what the Paladins could do?”

“I was in a Raid,” she defends, “though I was knocked out for most of it,” she glances around, “but of course we knew. Seeing it doesn’t change things.”

She sees Lancelot relax fractionally at her words. It doesn’t, no more than hearing about the atrocities on his skin changes how she views him. She’s glad for their first few weeks together when she sorted it out in her head and decided that he was someone worth knowing. Complicated as that made things. She’s also seen him kill. She’s not foolish enough anymore to think things are as simple as the other side being inhuman. Everyone in a gold mask who would harm her or Squirrel was, at some point, a person.

“What about you, little one?” Merlin asks.

“My name’s Squirrel,” Squirrel snaps back, “and I’ve seen worse than some old stones.”

“Squirrel,” Lancelot says his name sharply.

Pym turns her head, in case she gives into the urge to smile. Smiling in this place seems wrong. Even if Squirrel standing up to Merlin and the tone in Lancelot’s voice makes her want to smile. She knows that Merlin wouldn’t hurt Squirrel. Not for anything so grand as hurting little ones is wrong, maybe a little because of Squirrel’s friendship with Nimue, but most of all because Squirrel is in that golden city Merlin is determined to build. And he won’t risk it. Merlin looks up from the boy and give her one of those grins that has her rolling her eyes.

“So you cannot go in the church?” She asks Lancelot. He looks away and gives a quick nod, “after what you learned I suppose that makes sense.”

“How so?”

“You’re angry at it.”

He seems surprised at how quickly she arrives at that conclusion. But he doesn’t try to refute it. Pym wishes she didn’t understand that anger quite so well and she knows that her own frustrations are so far removed from his. Deep down, the more she thinks about it the more she sees her rebellions against her parents wishes for what they were. She sees why flinging herself onto the Raider’s ship was not nearly as terrifying as it should have been. Everything on shore scared her in a way she isn’t

certain she has the words for. But no-one tried to split her open with a sword for staying out too long in the market.

“It doesn’t change what I did,” he says.

“You’re right,” she agrees, “but it is more complicated than that,” she looks around, “it’s always been more complicated than that.”

Lancelot frowns and Pym wishes that it did change things. That it made any difference. But knowing what happened to him doesn’t bring back the people who once lived here. It doesn’t fix anything at all. He glances from her to Squirrel whose begun to kick a pebble down the dirt road. Pym almost thinks he doesn’t understand what’s happened here, but she corrects herself. He does. He’s just seen to much to think that anything there can harm him. It can’t. And she finds she doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop.

“I wish it did,” he says. She looks at him curiously, “I wish it changed things.”

He keeps his gaze away from hers and all things considered, Pym can understand why. It’s easier not to look sometimes. She’s reminded so strongly of the boat, right after the iron. She wonders how their roles have been reversed in this way. She doesn’t know what kind of comfort she can give. These weren’t her people. And she can’t even say she could be the one to tell him that is alright.

“I don’t think of you differently,” she says, “I doubt anyone else you told would. You’re the same Fey who did this—and the one who all the little ones gave their comfort toys to.”

Lancelot considers her words and presses his lips together.

“I don’t like being so—complicated,” he says.

Pym chuckles.

“I don’t blame you, but here we are,” she glances up at the archway and steps through it. After a moment Lancelot follows her. Everything’s gone except a foundation and a few crumbled walls. And the hearth. Pym feels ice run down her spine and puts the thought away as she peers at the hearth and then into the pot, “just dust,” she reports.

“Do you cook?” Lancelot asks, joining her there.

“Of course,” Pym says, “don’t you?”

“Not very well,” Lancelot admits.

Pym frowns as he looks around the destroyed place. He looks like he belongs there, dressed in his borrowed clothes. Even more than she does since hers are from Guinevere. But there’s something incredibly awkward about how he stands and looks around.

“Have you ever been in a home?” She asks, “not for killing or destruction. Just to live?”

“No,” he says.

“Even as a boy?”

“Father told me he didn’t want to risk me being hurt by those who didn’t understand,” he says, “I think he just needed to make sure my training stuck. I spent time in a monastery but not for any great length of it.”

It makes sense wth everything he’s said but it still hurts to hear.

“Did you want to?” She asks. He locks his eyes with her, “I was just wondering, when you were doing all of this, did you ever wonder? About what kind of life you could have here?”

He shakes his head and she nods, finally managing to avert her eyes. It seems like too direct a question to ask while looking at him. Even for how much stronger their friendship has become.

“Some part of me was afraid of it,” he admits, “the rest of me was angry at it.”

Pym thinks of what he said about the Ash Folk and can’t blame him for feeling that way.

“Do you miss it?” He asks, cutting into her thoughts, “this?”

“Not really,” Pym says, “but I was getting to the age where I was expected to marry. I think I was already telling myself it was no longer my home anymore.”

“Your husband’s home would be your home,” he says.

Pym thinks of the docks and Aaron’s mother and tries not to shiver. They saved her life and she found her way out of there. That place was no worse than the other homes she had seen, except maybe in how it smelled. Still the idea of having to convince someone to marry her and the pressure of it makes her want to be sick.

“That was the idea,” she says. She moves towards an outline in the floor, “have you ever slept on a bed?”

“Rarely.”

“Not those cots, I mean a proper bed,” he shrugs, “it would probably be good for your back.”

“My back is fine.”

He says it so quickly she almost misses the fact that he needs to stress such things. Though if she considers it, a lot has functioned on him being in peak physical condition. Even as he denied his own healing ability. She straightens up.

“Of course it is,” she says. He looks uncomfortable and nods, “but it would still be better if you slept on a real bed. You’ll find out when we sleep on them again.”

He rolls his eyes but there’s a softness to it that makes her think she didn’t speak incorrectly. Squirrel sighs loudly and she looks over at him.

“I’m bored, can we go back now?”

“Not yet,” she says at the same time Lancelot nods. She looks at him in surprise, “do you think—“

“No,” he says, “but nothing here is going to change that.”

She swallows, hearing her own words parroted back to her. But she sees the determination on Lancelot’s face. She knows that Kaze was hoping this would do something, but all it’s done is make them see that Lancelot is the same person they thought he was and that he cannot be in a church right now. She’s not sure any of them are happy with that answer. But at the very least, Lancelot seems to trust that standing in the wreckage hasn’t made any of them hate him. 

“So this didn’t fix anything,” Squirrel says, “I don’t understand why you think you need fixing.”

“Kaze is trying to help me make sure I don’t lose control of my Fire,” he says.

“Why would you do that? You just pray,” Squirrel points out.

“That may not work,” Lancelot says.

“How come?”

“Because the Paladins did some terrible things,” Pym cuts in, “and that’s the only version of the church Lancelot’s known.”

Lancelot looks at her silently for a moment before he nods. Squirrel seems to take this or, at the very least, he seems to know it’s not something he should be pressing. Pym has no idea if Lancelot has figured out what he wants to share with him, but she figures that she can save them some stress. Behind her she feels Merlin’s gaze on them. But she isn’t in the mood to deal with his riddles on top of everything else so she focuses her attention on Squirrel and Lancelot as they make their way back.

“I’m going to see Goliath,” he says.

Merlin is starting to look pale, as though he’s been more affected by the place than any of them. He barely complains when she ushers him into the room and gets him settled. Dusk is already fallen by the time he relaxes, half asleep. There’s a knock on the door.

She opens it to see Squirrel standing there with his bedroll. She grabs hers and follows him out to where Lancelot is sitting. It’s a clear, beautiful night. But Pym’s learned how quickly the weather can change. She strings up the tent with a bit of magic anyway. Lancelot watches them silently as Squirrel undoes his bedroll on his side and Pym’s on the other.

“Alright I’m going to sleep,” he announces and scrambles in.

“Goodnight,” Pym says to Lancelot, following him in.

It’s not long before she hears him enter. But when he does it seems like a calm settles over the inside of the tent. She can hear the horses and the woods, sounds that would have scared her at some point. After a moment, Lancelot settles himself between them. Pym glances over her shoulder, making out the reflection of the moon on his marks and then rolls onto her side. It’s a moment later that she feels Lancelot shift closer, their spines touching. It feels incredibly foolish that it makes her feel better, but at the moment she doesn’t care about feeling foolish. Not she. She feels him relax against her and his breathing start to even out.

Pym focuses on that and only that and lets the world fall away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading the story and have any feedback I would love to hear it! Your feedback helps me keep my motivation on this story and is very much appreciated. Thank you to the few who commented/messaged/kudosed the last chapter, it was very appreciated. Please let me know your thoughts!


	59. Tinder: Part 17

Lancelot knows he isn’t alone.

He’s aware of it but in an unsure way. He’s always considered himself good at adjusting, at adapting. He’s had to be. But the core mission has always been the same. The sudden lack of that is unsettling, or maybe it’s the way the old purpose ended. But he finds it difficult to adjust to his current situation. There is better shelter a few yards away, shelter that he would be in if he wasn’t so weak. But he’s not alone in the tent. He knows it when he opens his eyes to see Squirrel sprawled out, looking far more like a child than life has permitted him to be. He can’t see Pym.

But he can feel her.

That is the biggest adjustment. For as long as he can remember the Paladins have avoided touching him in an obvious way. He understood it, at the time. They were his brothers, he did not want them touching his demonic skin. How often had he wished to peel it off himself? Brother Salt said that if his skin was broken, if he was suffering, then he was being cleansed. Touching him was alright then, it was the Lord’s work. But if he bled all the time, he would be dead. He was always careful with how much he would touch his own flesh. He may have been the only Paladin in his age group that wore all the layers they were told to. He had barely adjusted to the fewer layers, but wearing only the shirt he does now feels very odd. He knows his skin is not demonic. He’s starting to believe it as well.

Which brings his thoughts to the back against his.

It’s a very strange but not unpleasant sensation. She’s sound asleep, as is Squirrel but he’s always been the lighter sleeper of the three. It’s an odd thing to be able to tell she’s asleep without the sound of her breathing or being able to see her. But he can tell from how relaxed she is and the feel of her breathing from where their backs are pressed together. She’s never seemed afraid to touch him, or if she is it’s not enough to stop her from doing it. He at least knows what to do with the feel of someone pressing on his wounds or digging their fingers into his flesh. He doesn’t know what to make of the feeling of someone asleep and pressed up against him.

When he goes to move, the back against his pushes harder into him, as though chasing the warmth of his skin. He doesn’t think it’s cold out, but then again he very rarely does. The countless layers he wore were practical but they were also for discomfort. His body feels fine without them, just more exposed to potential blades. Not that that is the same pressing concern. The closest thing he has in this place to someone coming in to cut his throat is Guinevere. And the times he’s caught her she’s merely jerked her head towards Pym and then glared at him. With what she’s told him about her family being desperate for a good match, he wonders if she’s realized a princess is now determined she not have that obligation. The back against his sighs deeply.

“Is it morning?” Pym asks sleepily.

“Hope not,” Squirrel mumbles and manages to twist himself closer, letting out his own deep sigh and falling back asleep.

Lancelot abruptly finds himself pinned between two bodies. Maybe it is cold out. Or maybe it’s just normal for them to seek out the nearest body to lay against. Either way for as strange as it is, it’s still not unpleasant. He feels alright laying there, sandwiched between them. There’s no urge to create Fire or anything troubling—as long as he doesn’t pay attention to the voice that tells him he should be up training. Or planning how best to win the war. Or both. For a moment, at least, he lets himself be content to just lay there sandwiched between the two of them.

It’s pleasant but he’s still oddly relieved when Pym stretches and sits up, running sleep from her eyes.

“Well thank goodness we put the tent up,” she remarks, “it looks like it’s going to rain again.”

Lancelot realizes she’s right as he carefully sits up as well. Squirrel mumbles a protest before he also gets up, stretching and looking at the tent. His face looks disgusted as he sees the cloudy light in the tent. Lancelot’s come to realize that rain is not how Squirrel prefers the weather. He doesn’t like it either. It fades the scents he uses to track. Rain always makes him feel anxious. It reminds him that time is substantially shorter, that things can fade faster than he’s expecting them to.

He can’t say it’s his favoritePym looks around and immediately shifts away when she sees how close they are, color rising on her cheeks. Lancelot knows that she’s comfortable with physical contact. But what Pym wants and what she thinks she should want have always seemed at odds in her. It’s a struggle he understands very well. As disorienting as it is to have everything ripped away, it does give him a clear divide. Pym has had things ripped away, but she is, in some ways, still very much in the same position. She catches him looking at her and pushes her hair behind her ears before getting up and stepping outside of the tent.

“Are we going to run?” Squirrel asks.

“Yes,” Lancelot says.

Pym looks at them quickly. Lancelot can understand her concern, but even if he cannot be inside the church he cannot just put everything on hold. There is so much he cannot do, but he can train Squirrel as promised. He can make sure he has the best chance of taking care of himself. Lancelot has no doubt he will survive the war whenever the battles start, but it won’t be because of his fighting skill. Lancelot will do whatever he must to make sure he survives.

“We’ll see you later,” he says to Pym.

She nods as he touches Squirrel’s shoulder and they fall into step with one another. The past few mornings have been difficult for him, but he does feel badly that he hasn’t prioritized training him. He puts Squirrel through what has become their usual warm up and the series of exercises that have gotten progressively more complicated.

“Are we going to spar?” Squirrel says.

“No,” he tells him, “sit.”

Squirrel looks at him carefully and then obeys, sitting down. Lancelot folds his legs. After a moment Squirrel does the same position.

“Close your eyes,” Lancelot says.

“Will you?”

“Yes,” he says, “think about a place where you feel safe.”

“Do you—“

“Think about it,” Lancelot cuts in.

Squirrel blows out his breath but Lancelot hears it start to steady as he obeys. Lancelot had intended to just close his eyes to appease him, but he finds his mind trying to think of a place. In the past it has always been the same. Kneeling in front of the crucifix. Praying. Now it no longer feels safe to think of such things. He casts his mind about, not getting tied up in the should and could of it. He just tries to think of somewhere safe.

Oddly, he thinks of the ship.

Odder still, he thinks of being chained up. He thinks of that first night. When his entire body was rebelling against his location while his mind knew for the first time they were safe. He was safe. As was Goliath and the other horse, Pym and Squirrel. It was the first night where he knew that they were alright. Even if only temporarily. His stomach still twists at the memory of the rocking, but he remembers the nausea was not as bad after Pym did her pressure point trick. So he holds himself in the feeling as Squirrel does the same. For once Squirrel is silent, matching his breath to Lancelot’s.

There’s a drop on his nose.

Lancelot opens his eyes to the clouded skies. A moment later Squirrel does as well. It’s clearly about to rain. It takes Squirrel a moment to get his legs under him after meditating successfully and coming out of it quickly. Lancelot hooks his hand under his arm and helps him to his feet. Another few drops hit them and Lancelot hears the distant rumble of thunder.

“Go for the church, I’ll get Pym,” he says.

Squirrel nods and jogs off. Lancelot figures Pym is at the tent but when he gets there, she isn’t. He catches her scent and sees her tracks, but neither go to the church. They all head towards the woods. He bites back on his frustration, knowing it’s more worry than anything else. There’s no sign of a struggle, Goliath is grazing nearby. She’s fine, she’s just gone into the woods for some odd reason. Lancelot hesitates only a moment before he reasons that as long as he’s careful about what he touches, he should be alright. He cannot just refuse to do things because he’s uncomfortable.

The rain starts to fall harder and though her trail is laughably fresh, he picks up his pace. The dirt is turning to mud and begins to squelch between his toes. Panic laces through him as he belatedly realizes he’s never been in the woods barefoot. There’s no barrier between the soles of his feet and whatever root systems may be lurking in the dirt. But he doesn’t think about going back. He can smell her scent trail. She’s moving but not terribly fast. Almost as though she’s looking for something.

He finally catches her around a tree, her hands buried in the dirt. She doesn’t hear him coming. The moment she realizes she’s not alone, she jumps up sending dirt flying and her hand tries to fumble the knife into a more offensive position. It actually takes a moment for her to calm down and he wonders if he truly looks that different. He supposes it’s a more starting change on him than someone whose spent most of their life out in the woods barefoot.

Still he’s never seen her like this either.

She looks comfortable being out in the woods, now that they aren’t being chased. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but he thinks it’s her hair more than anything else. She’s undone her braid and he’s surprised by how much of it there is, even though she’s always had it long. But with the weight of the water it seems even longer. It’s turned from it’s usual bright red to something darker but it still stands out against the purple dress.

“You scared me,” she says, lowering the knife.

“You shouldn’t be out her alone,” he tells her, “you didn’t hear me coming up.”

“I’m fine,” she assures him, “I just wanted to collect some things that the book said were good to find during a rainstorm.”

He nods.

She doesn’t move.

“Keep collecting them,” he says, “I’ll keep watch.”

She hesitates for a moment so he turns and starts scanning the forest. He still catches her roll he eyes before she turns back to the task. He knows that some things are better done without a watchful eye, but she can do nothing if she is dead or kidnapped. He can give her some kind of privacy but he cannot just let her go running through the woods unarmed and unprotected. He hears her straighten up and turns around.

“There’s more—“

“That’s fine,” he says, “Squirrel is back with the others.”

She looks at him carefully.

“Don’t take this the wrong way but are you alright to be here? With so much—“ she motions around, “I can go back with you and return with Kaze or someone.”

He shakes his head.

“I can control it,” he says, “as long as I’m mindful I will be fine. Squirrel and I were meditating,” she gives him a curious look, “I’m fine,” he says. He thinks about sitting back by the fire the last time she was kidnapped, “If you don’t mind, I would prefer to be the one to accompany you.”

She looks at him sympathetically and nods. He watches her look around and then start to make her way deeper into the woods. He follows her as the foliage becomes a bit thicker and the rain a bit less hard. He waits as she finds more things she needs. She’s quicker than he expects her to be. Even without the heightened senses she seems to have a knack for finding what she needs. He keeps his senses wide for any incoming threats, even as they make their way deeper into the woods. Pym seems to know that even with their relative safety, quickness and quietness are important.

The rain provides a good cover.

But not good enough.

He hears them off his left side. They’re in dense enough cover that there’s a chance they haven’t been spotted. Pym is crouched by the tree. He shifts his weight and lowers himself. She turns to look at him and seems to recognize the look on his face. Smartly, she moves her hand back and passes him the blade, turning the knife to have the least surface area. He jerks his head towards the sound and then the tree and she straightens up, stepping carefully to the side.

“Now, if you take us to your friends, we can promise you a quick death,” one of them says, recognizing he is Fey but not recognizing the rest of him, “if you can take us to the one who worked with us, we’ll pray for your soul.”

Lancelot’s never had time for the platitudes or elaborate speeches that the Paladins are known for. He’s always found them privately ridiculous, even at his most faithful. Though he supposes if he had ever hear or felt God’s Grace in any real way, he might feel differently. He stays still until they are within striking range. There’s always been a weakness in their need for validation. As if silence itself was heresy.

“Did you hear me, Fey? Or are your Folk the deaf sort?”

It’s two quick slashes to kill the first, one to cripple the second and he slams him up against the tree. It’s his fingers in his neck that keep him from dying, but it’s a temporary thing and they both know it. Fear fills the Paladins face. Savagely Lancelot is glad for it. Relishes it even. Until he sees Pym peer out from around the tree.

“How many?”

“I won’t tell you,” he rasps.

“Then I’ll follow your tracks and tell them you did,” he says, “will they pray for you then? How many?”

The Paladin smiles with red teeth and pulls his neck away, ending his life. Lancelot drops him to the earth and wipes his hands on his robe. Pym looks down at the dead bodies and then back to him, though the horror that may have been there months ago is now just anger and sadness.

“It’s just them,” Lancelot says.

“What?”

“For now. They’re a scouting party,” he says, “I can follow their trail.”

“It’s raining though,” Pym says.

“I need to follow it now. You should—“

“Don’t say I should go back,” Pym cuts him off, “I’m coming with you.”

He wants to protest but she looks at him in a way that reminds him of Squirrel. To think he thought he was going to get out of this without making Fire. But if the rest of the Paladins are in the woods under the thick canopy, he knows at least one person will see a signal from the forest. Several, if they’re keeping their watch schedule. Fortunately it’s a small amount of Fire, barely even enough to require him to pray to put it out. He aims it upwards and lets it burst against the raindrops and vanish just as quickly. Bending down, he disarms one of the Paladins. After a moment, he reaches up and closes his eyes. He does the same with the other. He hands the knife back to Pym.

“Stay close,” he orders and leads them after the Paladin’s trail.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages! Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter and I will see you in the next!


	60. Tinder: Part 18

Pym cannot believe that they didn’t recognize him.

She supposes that he looks very different from when they would have last seen him, but so different that they wouldn’t recognize him is extreme. But she’s never given the Paladins much credit where their eyes are concerned. She thinks for a moment that neither of them have any business doing this. They are surrounded by too much living green and Lancelot is barefoot. She—well she doesn’t have any business tracking Paladins like this. But that doesn’t stop her from declaring she’s going with him. It would be smarter to run for the church and get help, but the idea of leaving him alone is one she rejects completely.

Without the covering of his hood, she can see him working as he follows the trail. The Paladins don’t have Fey with them, but he finds the ways the ground has changed and the fibers of red caught in different plants. He uses the flat sword to move foliage aside. He’s not tense like she sees him but rather completely relaxed. More relaxed than she’s witnessed when he’s awake. This is his element, she thinks. Where he’s most comfortable. She’s careful to follow in his footsteps to not leave another set of prints behind as they follow the trail back to the Paladin’s camp. She hears it before she sees it.

“Wait,” she says, “those bushes are too low. I’ll look.”

“No,” he says, “too many thorns,” he glances around, “can you climb?”

“Yes,” she says, “can you—“

He nods and bends down, cupping his hands. It feels odd to do without a horse but she puts her hand against his shoulder and her foot in his hands. He boosts her up and she grabs the first branch, pulling herself up. Lancelot looks up at her and she listens for the sound of any Paladins. She has no idea if their route on patrol would take them around this area. After a moment she mentally apologizes to Guinevere, pulls her knife out and cuts a long strip from the bottom of her dress. She slices it in half and drops them down to him.

“Wrap your hands and come on,” she says, “can you control your feet?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

She rips another strip from the dress and hands that down as well. Lancelot wraps both and she kicks herself for not thinking of it earlier, though their trek probably would have ruined the fabric. She is about to ask if he needs help when he wraps his hands around the branch and pulls himself up. She hasn’t forgotten how tall he is, but it just hasn’t been the clearest thing on her mind. He can probably climb faster than her but he follows in her route as she picks out the safest branches. Midway up he touches her ankle and nods downwards. She looks to see another pair of Paladins walk by, mumbling about something and missing the tracks they left.

Higher up on the tree, she sees the branches start to thin and figures the one she’s on is good enough. She eases her way out on it, taking care not to break the cover of the branches too badly. Peering through them she feels her mouth go dry at the sight of how many tents there are. She can see figures milling about, including Paladins and Trinity Guards. She thinks of the trap the Trinity Guards had and suddenly the tree feels far less safe, even if she knows this one is untouched. She comes back to where Lancelot is crouched closer to the trunk. He looks at her curiously.

“There’s a lot of them,” she says quietly.

“Switch with me,” he says and she does. He makes his way out and looks through. If the sight of so many frightens him, it doesn’t show on his face. He comes back and crouches on the branch. She gives him a look and he seems to remember that he isn’t alone, “they’ve set a base up. They don’t know where we are and in a group they won’t move quickly.”

“We should head back,” she says.

“Not yet,” he tells her, “they’ll change the perimeter guards soon, we can get a better idea of their numbers.”

She nods and realizes they may be in the tree for a while.. The branch Lancelot is crouched on is thick and she hesitates only a moment before she pulls herself up and sits alongside the tree trunk. Them being caught is a great threat but so is Lancelot blowing the tree up. She draws her legs up and makes sure her dress isn’t hanging over the sides. Lancelot catches what she’s doing and moves closer, drawing his own legs up and making sure he’s not visible from the ground or through the leaves. After a moment and several glances he pulls the tie out of his hair and hands it to her.

“Your hair is bright,” he says.

“Oh, right,” she realizes, feeling heat creep up her cheeks, “sorry about that—“

“You don’t need to apologize,” he cuts in.

She nods and quickly braids it, winding the braid around itself and securing it. She considers cutting another strip of fabric but doesn’t want to risk it. Pulling it back should be enough. When it’s secured, she realizes it was helping somewhat with the cold, or at least that it was more bearable without her neck exposed. She shoves the discomfort away, at the moment it’s irrelevant. Lancelot’s just as soaked and his shirt is thinner, but he looks as comfortable as if he was sitting next to a fire.

“When do they change guards?” She asks.

“The Paladins will probably wait until it stops raining,” he says. She raises her eyebrows and he gives a ghost of a smile, “no need for anyone else to get wet.”

“What if it rained all night?” She asks. He shrugs, “it’s a miracle they have any watch at all with you gone,” she remarks. He looks at her quickly, “something tells me you didn’t care about the rain when you were on watch.”

“I preferred my own company,” he says.

“That’s funny, I’ve only seen them come by in pairs,” she points out.

He looks back at the camp which tells her pretty much everything he doesn’t want to say. Pym doesn’t blame him. She can see him easily slotting back into his old ways of working. But they aren’t working, they’re sitting up in a tree waiting for the rain to stop.

“I saw you close their eyes,” she says.

“What of it?”

“Did you know them?” He glances back at her and shakes his head “that was kind of you,” he glances away, “I’m just saying it was a nice thing to do,” she says, “I don’t know how you can balance all of it. Being kind and—“

“Killing?” He finishes.

She shrugs and then thinks better of it and nods.

“It’s not the kind of thing you balance,” he says.

“But you’re doing it right now,” she points out. He gives her a confused look, “that camp is surrounded by trees. It must be sitting on a lot of roots.”

He stiffens in a way she hasn’t seen and though his head doesn’t move, his eyes go towards the camp and then back at her. A look of self loathing flickers across his face, one that he does his best to hide in nothing but the wet strands of his hair. When he speaks his voice takes on that tone she’s beginning to understand is one he’s learned to use out of necessity.

“You’re right,” he says, “I could kill them all,” he locks eyes with her, “if I do that I could stop anyone else on our side from dying. Cumber is most likely there. It would only leave Uther and without support he would be easy to kill.”

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold air runs down her spine as he speaks so plainly about it. He’s waiting, she realizes. He’s looking at her and he’s waiting. Pym can’t pretend she hasn’t been envious of the wonders that he can do, that Nimue or Merlin or Squirrel can do. Being able to fight like Guinevere is impossible but it’s more of a possibility than her ability to make Fey Fire. Except from the way he’s looking at her, she realizes she could. He just sits there and offers her the chance to get revenge and prevent more death in one go. If she can convince him—except she realizes that’s not quite it. She doesn’t need to convince him.

“If I said that was what I wanted, would you do it?” He gives a jerk of his head that makes her feel as though she’s lost her grip and is falling from the tree, “why? Why would you do that if I asked you to?”

“I trust you,” he says simply.

She tears her eyes away as she thinks of the marks that line his back. Of his anger towards God and the people that he has trusted. She won’t lump herself in with those monsters. She’s glad her trust is reciprocated. But as she sits there the memories of their time together play back and she thinks of demanding explanations and yelling at him. Mostly she thinks of pulling him onto the boat. It’s not the same but the similarity of being the one to give an order to someone who has no idea how to refuse it makes her skin crawl.

“Well I don’t want you to do that,” she says, pulling her knees closer to her chest, “I’m not interested in trading everyone’s life to get all of their blood on your hands.”  
  
“I’ve had more blood than that,” he reminds her, “and there wouldn’t be any blood.”

“Lancelot!” She hisses his name at the attempt at a joke, “do you want to do that?”

“It would make sense,” he says.

“That wasn’t my question.”

He moves forward and glances out from the branches. Pym can hear the rain falling down but doesn’t have it in her to move at the moment. She also understands Lancelot’s need for space. How the question, posed differently, could seem like a test.

“It doesn’t mean you’re disloyal to Guinevere if you don’t want to do that,” she adds.

His posture shifts slightly as he eases back to where they were earlier, almost mimicking her position. Pym tells herself it’s a practical way to sit. Not that he’s mimicking her in some warped show of loyalty because that kind of subtle action has been carved into his skin and twisted into his mind.

“I don’t know,” he says. She frowns and her confusion must show because he continues, “I don’t know if I want to kill them,” he elaborates, as though her pointing out it doesn’t make him a traitor allows him to voice the confusion.

“It’s complicated,” she says.

“It’s not,” he retorts, “I’ve killed more than is in that field. Far more,” he says and she tries not to think of the size of the group or how she knew that, “killing them would keep everyone safe. It’s the logical thing to do.”

“Life’s more complicated than just logic,” she says.

“Not always.”

“Not always, but right now,” she counters, “and if we lose people, their blood isn’t automatically on your hands because you chose not to murder everyone over there.”

He looks away and Pym knows he doesn’t believe her.

“Those things wouldn’t be interconnected if you didn’t want—“

“Want isn’t important,” he says.

“Of course what you want is important,” she shoots back, “how could you think it’s not?” He says nothing, “Lancelot—“ she sees him tense his shoulders.

“Acting on what I want has consequences,” he says. Maybe her mind is foolish or waterlogged or just trying to keep her safe but after a moment of frustration, he continues, “it hurts,” he says simply.

Never has she heard him say something so plainly about pain and when his head dips, it’s towards the scar on his collarbone. Whatever protective innocence her mind has cocooned her in, she rips through. Of course someone who was split open for trying to escape would have a twisted view of what desire got you. As if the trauma of his family trying to cut his throat for their secrets wasn’t bad enough. He’s scarred like that because he chose to run. The starbursts are from the choice to protect Squirrel, the iron burns from the choice to follow her. The consequence for ‘want’ is written on his skin. And if she knows nothing else, she knows that Lancelot understands the language of bodies and skin.

“It’s hard, figuring out what you want,” she says, “especially when you’re punished for acting on it,” she dips her head, “I was just ostracized, it was nothing like—“ he gives her a look. One she recognizes from her disparaging remarks. He’s never treated her struggles with anything but respect, though when she voices them she can’t help but feel foolish in comparison, “it’s not easy to figure out what you want when you’re punished for acting on it,” she says.

“Everyone says I should,” he says.

“Whose everyone?” She asks, an odd ache coming over her.

“Arthur, Guinevere, Gawain,” he rattles it off.

“Did you explain everything?” She asks.

“Only to you,” he says.

She doesn’t know why that makes the odd ache go away. She doesn’t want to think about why it feels a little too close to relief. Or why that ache feels a little to close to jealousy.

“Then they don’t understand,” she says. He nods, “we could try something else?” She offers. He looks at her, “do you want me to do the thing to your back again?”

He considers and Pym wonders if she’s overstepped somehow but there’s nothing to do at the moment but wait for the rain to stop. He nods his head after a moment and manages to turn without risking any exposure. She shifts up to her knees and hopes her hands aren’t too cold.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You’re welcome,” she replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 60th chapter! Wow! Someone had a very good question about if Lancelot knows where babies come from and the basic answer is yes. He knows the basics of it. But he knows about it in a very narrow, very Catholic way. He's been taught sex for pleasure is sinful. But at least he's questioning what he's been taught so we'll get there on the pleasure front.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! Thank you for the Tumblr messages/kudos/comments. They are so appreciated. Onwards!


	61. Tinder: Part 19

He’s oddly disappointed as the rain lets up.

Not totally, but there is a lingering taste of it. Which he is immediately annoyed at. There are far better ways to spend time with someone than trapped in a tree like this. Especially when her dress has become significantly shorter because he’s incapable of fully controlling a gift he’s spent his life repressing. The rain lessens and then turns into a fine mist. He knows enough about the Paladins to know this is the time when they will change. He inches forward on the branch and carefully peers through a natural gap in the leaves. The group that comes from the woods is much larger than he was anticipating. Largely due to the fact that it’s comprised of Trinity Guards, Paladins, Royal Guards and those loyal to Cumber. No-one holds trust in anyone. The group that comes to replace them is larger still. As they enter the woods, he hears them start but a few go in different directions, complaining more.

They’re sending out more scouting parties.

“We need to make our way back on the trees,” he says.

“What?”

He nods and starts picking his way to the other side of the tree. Some of the branches are close enough to nearly touch. He motions for Pym to stand back and moves forward, crossing the gap as lightly as he can. The branch is unmoving. He turns back to Pym and motions her forward. She moves across as well. Before she can stumble she grabs his arm and he steadies her. When he looks he can see there’s a slightly colorless sheen to her lips.

“Are you cold?” He says.

“I’m fine,” she replies. He gives her a look, “yes,” she says, “aren’t you?”

“No,” he tells her, “I’ll help you across the gaps.”

She looks momentarily frustrated but nods. He leads them around the tree and finds a new gap. This time after he makes it across, he extends his hand to her and helps her across the gap before leading them to the thicker part of the branch. The situation is less than ideal, but he chooses branches that can support both of them without alerting the people below them. He has a general idea of their direction, but he needs to make sure they don’t accidentally lead anyone back. He still has his hand on her wrist. He can feel when she starts to shiver. He glances back and she waves him off, looking determined.

It’s well into dusk when they get anywhere near the vicinity of the camp. He’s pushed them at a hard pace, balancing the care of choosing secure footholds with the urgency of being able to see properly. To her credit, Pym has kept pace even as it’s gotten colder and harder to navigate. She looks frustrated and embarrassed whenever her foot slips, even though she has no reason to be. He can practically hear the complaints at the pace that his brothers would have made no matter how many times he would tell them to be silent. Pym just presses her lips together and pushes herself harder.

Finally, blissfully, he hears the sound of a whinny he thinks could be Goliath. Though it seems like they’re too far to be close enough. He guides Pym to the side of the tree and peers down through the branches.

It’s Goliath, but he’s not alone.

Arthur is leading him. Goliath is good at finding him, but he’s not that good. Arthur isn’t alone. Lancelot has no idea what he’s promised her, but sitting on the front of the saddle looking directly up at him is Tristain. Her eyes narrow and Arthur peers upwards as well. The look on his face is far friendlier. The woods still have look out parties and Tristain is gagged but she could still betray them. He should be furious, but seeing a friendly face makes the iron band around his heart loosen. The unmistakable feeing of being safe pushes at him and he has to temper it. Pym is less steady but she relaxes at the look on his face.

“It’s Arthur,” he says and she looks like she could collapse in relief, “can you make it down?”

“Yes,” she says, “I’ve been climbing trees in worse states than this,” she tells him.

He nods and picks his way down first, choosing an easy path. But she doesn’t slip as she mades her way down after him, making it easily to the final branch. It’s a longer fall, but Goliath shuffles forward and positions himself so Lancelot can lower himself down and land gently on his back. Pym does the same, though Lancelot catches her, mindful of the bigger drop. She looks at Arthur who offers them both a grin. She also looks surprised a the sight of Tristain.

“It’s not safe here,” he says.

“Then let’s get out of here,” Arthur agrees, “here,” he says and hands the reins to Tristain, “remember the agreement.”

Lancelot is surprised and he sees she’s still shackled but with a longer chain. Her fingers curl around the leather and she gives Lancelot a sharp look before digging her heels into the horse’s flanks. Lancelot tightens his grip on Pym and Goliath’s reins and steers him after her. He can smell the Fey but surprisingly Tristain does not take them back the way they came. She steers them towards the scent of other Fey. Several times Arthur looks back at him and Lancelot realizes he’s making sure they’re going in the correct direction. It’s a harder thing than he wants to admit to juggle following Tristain, keeping an eye on where they are suppose to be going and feeling Pym’s shivers get worse as their shared body heat helps warm her up.

“We’re close,” he tells her.

“A-alright,” she says, too cold for anything else.

The moment they are at the church he dismounts and helps her. Walking into it does not feel ideal but it’s not overwhelming in the same way. Or perhaps it’s just his survival instinct kicking back in. Then again he’s learned that however he is punished for acting on wants, there are some that are worth that pain. The idea of sitting outside while Pym shivers is far more unbearable than being in that building. He glances back to make sure Arthur is able to handle Tristain but she seems unusually cooperative. He has to trust Arthur. When they get into the light the first thing he notices is how pale she is. The second are all the little scrapes. Warming her is the priority, then they can worry about the scrapes.

“What happened?” Squirrel asks immediately, “I saw the Fire.”

He’s about to tell him to go but thinks better of it. There’s a true panic in Squirrels eyes. Lancelot knows Pym isn’t in real danger but she looks like death warmed over. This past morning feels like a lifetime ago. But Lancelot remembers the guilt of not paying attention to Squirrel while lost in his own problems. Besides, this is something he can genuinely help with.

“I need you to find something else for her to wear. Go to Guinevere,” he orders, “start with the fact that she’s alright.”

Squirrel nods and runs off to accomplish his task. Lancelot leads Pym back to the healers room. Merlin is already there tending to the fire. He glances at them and nods before making himself blissfully absent. Lancelot grabs the blanket from the bed. It’s not ideal but it will do.

“Take your dress off and wrap this around yourself,” he says.

She nods and he turns around. It takes a bit longer for her to get her dress off but he hears the fabric hit the ground with a wet sound. When he turns around she’s got the blanket tight around herself and is shuffling over to the fire, not quite collapsing but sitting heavily down in front of it. Lancelot comes over to where she’s sitting, still shivering but looking very grateful to be dry.

“You did well,” he says.

“P-please,” she dismisses, rolling her eyes but some of the humor coming back to her face, “I barely kept stand-in-g.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anyone I their first patrol to keep up like you did,” he tells her.

“G-g-good,” she says, “or-r I’d th-think you were e-evil.”

He lowers himself cross legged next to her. He focuses on the energy he’s always vaguely aware of and directs it to his hands. It’s easier to do when he’s got a connection to some living root system but he’s not trying to make Fire. The kinetic energy heats his skin. He motions towards her and she shivers, looking at him confused.

“Give me whatever is coldest,” he says.

She brings out her hands from inside the blanket and clasps them around his. He puts his other hand above her head, where more heat is escaping. The shivering gets worse briefly before it goes away and the color starts returning to her lips and fingers. When he takes his hand from the crown of her head, she doesn’t immediately start shivering again. He almost misses her wince but not quite.

“What hurts?”

“It’s just the blood coming back to my fingers,” she says. He looks at her blankly, “have you ever hand your fingers and toes go numb?”

“I redirect my energy,” he says.

“Of course you do,” she says, exasperated but still soft. He manages to smile, somewhat embarrassed, “you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, “let me see your feet.”

“They’re not as bad as the probably look,” she warns, gripping the blanket and shifting so her feet are exposed.

The scrapes are minor, but some of the skin is raw and a few scratches are there. He’s glad that if they have other Fey, they weren’t out or they hadn’t thought to look up there. There isn’t a lot. His primary concern is making sure there’s no thorns in them, but there doesn’t seem to be. Just pink patches of skin. It seems like a lifetime ago that he was sitting with her foot in his lap, making sure she hadn’t broke it kicking in a Trinity Guard’s mask when they foolishly kidnapped her. Now he just cups her feet between his hands and helps bring warmth back into them.

“I found clothes,” Squirrel says, drawing both their attention to the door, “and soup and bread,” he sets the tray down and the bundle of cloth, “and I convinced Guinevere not to ‘murder you wear you stand’.”

“I’m not standing,” Lancelot points out.

Squirrel gives him a look reminiscent of Pym’s exasperation before turning to her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she says, “I’m warmer now,” she smiles at him, “Lancelot says I did well for my first patrol.”

“He says I have to learn to be quiet before I can do mine,” Squirrel says, folding his arms.

“It’s hard to be quiet,” Pym agrees, “thank you for getting all of this.”

“It was nothing,” Squirrel says, “Kaze says the soup will help. She says she was cold all the time when she came here. She also says you should cover your head.”

“Lancelot warmed my head,” she promises.

“Your hair looks dry,” Squirrel says.

The two of them stare at each other for a moment and Lancelot doesn’t know what they both look horrified about. Pym sighs and shakes her head.

“It’s not really a problem,” she says, “we have bigger things to worry about anyway.”

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“The boys used to make fun of her hair when she had it like that,” Squirrel says, “and the girls.”

“It was nothing,” Pym says, and at least she’s warm enough to blush. She undoes the leather and Lancelot remembers his own hair is down, “they made fun of me for other things as well.”

“Yeah but—“

“It was just teasing,” Pym cuts him off, unwinding her braid, “we’ve moved past that. I’m just glad it’s dry. Though I’m half tempted to shave it like you,” she says to Squirrel.

Squirrel shudders. His hair is inching closer to his ears and he savors every bit that it gets longer. Lancelot has no idea why anyone would mock Pym’s hair. Without the weight of the water, it’s still impossibly long. But now it curls and seems to catch the light of the fire the way that his marks do.

Lancelot’s spent most of his life away from women except either as nuns or as sinners. But the first thing that comes to mind is a painting he saw once, of the sinner washing the Lord’s feet and drying them with her hair. It was an act of devotion that absolved her sins. He knows Father was there, explaining that a great enough sacrifice would cleanse him. But in his memory, he cannot even remember the words. Just the general tone. He remembers the painting though. 

He remembers thinking it was beautiful.

The absence of Father’s voice isn’t the only strange thing. When he thinks of the painting, he knows he flogged himself for coveting it. Material things were not to be coveted, though he did the same when he coveted the story of David and Goliath. The painting was worse though. It was a false idol. He remembers the flog, but his back doesn’t itch or ache for it like most of his memories.

“Are you okay?” Squirrel asks.

“Yes,” he says quickly, jerked back to reality, “your hair reminded me of something.”

“Aright, what?” She says, but some of the humor has dropped out of her tone. She’s sensitive about it, he realizes.

“A painting I saw a long time ago,” he says.

“Oh,” Pym says, tucking a lock behind her ear.

Something seems to settle between them, something that Lancelot has no concept of. It feels warm, different than the Fire he wields and different than any fire he’s encountered. It seems to start from some other part of him, some part he knows he should atone for but doesn’t feel particularly sorry about. He doesn’t know how to ask if Pym feels it as well. Squirrel clearing his throat loudly seems to break it before he can figure it out, but if he focuses he can still feel it.

“Does anyone want soup? It’s supposed to help you warm up but you’re both bright red.”

“Must be the fire,” Pym says and takes the bowl.

Lancelot nods in agreement. He takes the bowl from Squirrel.

She shivers so, she must be right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay now we are firmly in the parking lot of the fluff carnival and we're looking for our spot. Thank you for the comments, kudos, tumblr messages and someone recommended the fic on twitter which was amazing to see. Please let me know your thoughts! Onwards!


	62. Tinder: Part 20

“I am glad you’re better,” Gawain sighs, appearing next to her.

Pym looks at him, surprised. She realizes he’s been scarce the past few days. She’s not sure if that is because of something beyond this world or some practical mission she doesn’t know about. She feels warmer, maybe even better. Until she thinks about the woods and the search parties. They have some protection here but she’s not sure if it is enough. If anywhere will be safe. She has to remind herself that nowhere truly is.

“I wasn’t that sick,” she says, “just cold.”

“I wasn’t talking about physically,” Gawain says, “though I am glad you were warmed.”

Pym wonders if there’s anything in the book about blush too much, surely spending this much time in her cheeks is robbing some other organ of blood. Gawain has known her longer than anyone else on earth at the moment, he’s seen her family lose everything and seen her mourn. Though the last time he was off to become a Knight and Nimue was beginning her training. They both checked in on her, as much as children could check in on one another.

“Thank you,” she says, “I’m lucky to have understanding friends.”

“You know you need friends among the living,” Gawain says, “you cannot live among the dead.”

“Is this your way of saying you’ve been avoiding me?” She inquires. He smiles faintly and inclines his head.

“In a way, I suppose,” he agrees, “it’s more an apology.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” she says, “you’re beyond all of this,” she says, “and I wasn’t alone.”

Gawain nods, the dreamy look breaking for a moment before it drifts back across his face. He is beyond this and she hasn’t been alone. Pym still isn’t sure why he’s stayed. Duty, she imagines. Or something else. But he’s chosen to stay and fight while also being beyond things like anger or sadness or fear. It sounds terrifying to her, but it is what he has chosen. And Gawain has always been the bravest of them.

“I’m glad,” he says, “glad none of you have been alone,” he sighs, “though how you have not driven each other mad is a mystery beyond even my comprehension.”

Pym recognizes the joke for what it is and rolls her eyes. It’s been a near thing more times than she would like to admit. But as she watches Lancelot guide Squirrel through the motions of using a sword with a stick, she can admit it has been worth it. More than worth it. Even if there were many moments when she thought she would pull her hair out if she couldn’t strangle Lancelot for what he took or gag Squirrel to have a moment of quiet and one less thing to worry about.

“I suppose some things must remain a mystery even to you,” she says. She looks at him, “how did Arthur convince Tristain to help?”

“He offered to let her ride back,” Gawain says.

“That’s all?”

Gawain nods.

Pym thinks of the way that Lancelot speaks with his movements better than his mouth, how his skin sometimes itches and aches for a flog. How much steadier he started to seem after he began to do the physical movements he does with Squirrel. She imagines Tristain must work much the same. The sound of the cloth wrapped striking each other draws her attention back to the training. The sound seems dangerously loud but she supposes if the search parties can hear that, they’re already dead. Squirrel puts up a good fight, there are even a few times when he nearly hits Lancelot, though in the end the elder is victorious. But when they nod at each other there’s respect in the gesture.

“I’m sorry he couldn’t be your Squire,” she says to Gawain.

“He was,” Gawain says and something very mischievous and alive sparks in the wise depths of his eyes, “probably for as long as I could have stood it,” she hears the sound of someone hitting the grass and watches Lancelot roll to his feet as Kaze smirks, “Squirrel is where he should be. Lancelot will be where he should, soon enough.”

“What do you mean?” She asks, trying not to be distracted by the flash of purple as Kaze fakes him out and Lancelot gives his own version of her smile, “where he should be?”

“A Knight,” Gawain says. He looks at her curiously, “what did you think I meant?”

Pym steers her thoughts from Merlin and his stupid golden city and shakes her head.

“I don’t know—“ she inhales sharply as the two go blow for blow. There’s something operatic about it, but both seem to be enjoying themselves very thoroughly, “are they going to hurt each other?”

“They seem quite in control,” Gawain says.

“I know but—“ she almost stands up when Lancelot executes some complicated, almost balletic move, only to be met by Kaze throwing him over her hip when he lands, “how on earth—“

“They’ve been doing this for months,” Gawain says and Pym doesn’t know why it makes her stomach clench. But she doesn’t like it. One of them smacks the dirt purposefully and they both get up, exchanging the same kind of respectful nod that he and Squirrel gave each other, “they are well matched,” Gawain says.

“Yes,” she agrees.

“As fighters,” Gawain adds.

“Obviously,” Pym says, unsure of why she feels miserable, “that’s how he communicates.”

“Not anymore,” Gawain remarks. Pym looks at him, “when he came to me in that tent, even before that, he barely spoke,” he looks back at the group, “compared to that, he’s practically Squirrel now.”

Pym nods and wonders why on earth she feels odd at those few words. He and Kaze are very well matched, they are both skilled Fey warriors. They speak a language that Pym does not. Across everything that they have done, across their vast differences, there’s an ease to their communication. She recognizes the feeling from the tree and Lancelot saying other people were giving him advice. It’s not a feeling she wants to linger on. It’s something she’s learned not to linger on, not after years spent going to the market with Nimue. Maybe she’s just getting sick. Or maybe it’s the discomfort of the clothes she’s wearing.

She’s grateful and she’s already apologized to Guinevere who waved her off and told her she didn’t care about a stupid thing like a dress. Pym almost said she didn’t believe her, but given the dress that Squirrel showed up with she can see why she wouldn’t. Just to be sure Guinevere had called after her that she didn’t care about that one either. Pym doesn’t know how she doesn’t, this one is fashioned like a long coat that buttons down the front. Embroidery climbs up the sleeves and down the two front panels. It’s the same violet shade with the embroidery being just a bit darker and the underdress a bit lighter. She’s beginning to think that these were Guinevere’s colors.

But it’s silly to be worrying about dresses when there’s an army approaching anytime.

“He just needed a peer to talk to,” she dismisses.

“You never were a very good liar,” Gawain says.

“I—I can lie,” Pym sputters out. Gawain gives her a look that Pym is fairly certain the living are not supposed to be on the receiving end of, “I’m getting better.”

“Perhaps one day we will make a world where you will not have to lie,” he says.

Pym does’t dare hope for something so foolish. And she has been getting better. A bit. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on her part. It’s not as though she’s truly had to lie in a while. Well, not since she told Merlin she didn’t care about his stupid city or who is or is not there. Perhaps Merlin knew she was lying, though she doubts it. Or maybe he’s just saving that secret for another time. It’s not something she particularly wants to think about. Which—seems to be an increasingly large number of things.

“How did Arthur get Tristain to cooperate?” She asks.

“I believe he promised she could steer the horse back,” Gawain says. Pym raises her eyebrows, “if someone has spent their life moving and cannot, it’s not an easy thing.”

“You’ve been talking to her,” Pym says.

“When she wishes,” Gawain replies, “which is not very often. But she is more curious as of late. Or more polite.”

“I told her that if she cooperated she could confess to the priest,” Pym admits.

Gawain smiles again but winds up looking far more like the Fey he once was.

“That was quite smart of you,” he says.

Pym shrugs and feels her cheeks get warm.

“Lancelot’s been sharing some of the stories that the Catholics have,” she says, “and their beliefs. Confessing seemed like something someone who believed in that would want. I just happened to be partially right. It seems like the thing she really wanted was to ride around.”

“You shouldn’t doubt yourself,” Gawain says, rising to his feet, “though at least when you believe in yourself, you will know it’s honest.”

Pym shakes her head, getting to her own feet as he walks off, at first she thinks to fight Kaze but it’s actually Squirrel he brings over. She gives Squirrel a curious look and he shrugs, seeming just as confused as she is. Gawain puts himself so he and Squirrel are just about level.

“You know there is a battle coming,” he says, “many, in fact. And you are too young to fight in them.”

“I know,” Squirrel says. Pym almost sighs in relief, “I would like to give your Squire a gift,” he says, “but I would not do it without your permission.”

“What is it?” Squirrel asks. Gawain motions him forward and whispers something. Squirrel considers for a moment and then nods, “I think that’d be good.”

“I’m glad,” Gawain says and there’s no joke in his voice. He looks at Pym, “your skills may be required.”

She nods, still unsure. Before she can ask though Gawain has moved away. When Squirrel comes back he’s got Lancelot and Kaze following him. Kaze gives a knowing look and ducks away, only leading to more questions. Lancelot doesn’t seem to know what’s going on anymore than she does.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” she says.

“Just wait,” Squirrel says.

“What’s going on?” Lancelot asks as Gawain comes back, carrying something wrapped in cloth. Pym barely needs to glance at it to guess what it might be. But when Kaze comes back with a familiar bundle of cloth, she guesses what it might be.

“I’ve been given permission from your Knight, to gift you something. It’s the responsibility of a Knight to arm his Squire, but yours has graciously allowed this exception,” Gawain says, “circumstances being what they are.”

He sets the bundle down.

Inside is his armor.

Lancelot pales slightly and Pym suddenly finds her eyes stinging. It’s a painful reminder of the man Gawain used to be. She remembers him getting the armor, how proud he was even when it was too big for him. He grew into it. It’s been repaired and polished, not that Fey armor needs it often. Kaze has the under jacket. The two are a similar size, or were, but Pym imagines some slight altering will be needed.

“You are among your brothers,” Gawain says, “and your friends. You should go into this battle knowing who they are.”

Lancelot stares at the armor and Pym finds she’s holding her breath. She doesn’t exhale until he nods. Even as she remembers his words in the tree. She doesn’t want to break the moment, she can feel the weight of it. Even when Kaze claps his shoulder and helps him into the layer. She looks for any sign that he’s uncomfortable, but even he seems caught in the weight of the moment. The armor is designed for ease but the straps are odd if never used before and stranger still if you’ve never taught someone else to put on armor.

“Let me help,” she says.

“Full circle, I suppose,” Gawain says.

Pym shakes her head and finds the familiar straps, helping him until the armor is more or less where it’s supposed to be. The entire time Lancelot holds himself rigidly, almost like he’s afraid to breathe even though Pym is sure it’s not that tight.

“Can you give us a moment?” She asks, “I need him to relax so I can see what I need to adjust.”

The three trade glances before stepping back. Pym doesn’t know why the trading glances seems to be happening more and that’s not her concern. She looks up at him.

  
“I can lie and say that I can’t make it fit you,” she says, “if this isn’t something you want to do.”

“I do,” he says. She keeps their eyes together, “I’ve never worn armor before.”

“Fey armor or—“

  
“Armor.”

She tries to think if she’s ever seen Paladins or Guards in it and she’s certain she has. Usually hidden under their red robes. The Guards absolutely. She remembers feeling it before and the few pieces Tristain was wearing when they took her.

“Goliath has armor,” she says.

Lancelot just looks at her and she knows. Whether it was because Father Carden thought he was touched by God or just sadistic, she can’t say. She doesn’t want to think about it. He has armor now. That is the most important thing.

“Can you relax?” She asks. His lips curve up faintly and she shakes her head, “silly question but just try,” she glances over, “Squirrel!” He comes trotting around the corner, “just start talking.”

“About what? You look great in that armor,” he says, “like a real Knight. I’m glad you two can be safe. Or safe as Gawain can be since he’s already dead—“

Lancelot’s posture softens and Pym focuses her magic, loosening and tying different knots to accommodate Lancelot’s shoulders and height and his forearms. She tightens others that are slightly loose. Finally she can say it fits him very well. She pulls her hands back as Squirrel keeps talking and opens her eyes. It’s odd only in how not odd it is to see Lancelot in Fey armor, listening to Squirrel ramble. In some other world perhaps he would be the Knight he will one day be and Squirrel would be his Squire. But in this world, she can enjoy the oddities of the situation for what they are.

“Better?” Squirrel finishes, jerking her back to reality, “it fits better right?”

Lancelot nods.

“We should practice again, to make sure,” Squirrel says.

“You’ll need this,” Gawain says, appearing and handing him the helm, “and these.”

Lancelot drops the helm.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” Gawain says, “for keeping them from you.”

“But if you are fighting with us as our brother, we think they will serve you well again.”

At her words Pym realizes why the blades he holds are different. Though how he’s gotten them, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how Gawain has any of these things. It’s not nearly the strangest thing about him but it is still surprising. 

“Hey you’ve got your swords back,” Squirrel says, “I remember those. Wait till you see him fight with them.”

Lancelot looks over at her. Even someone not trained like her can see the difference in those compared to the swords he keeps taking off the Paladins. Much in the same way that Goliath’s armor and saddle are exquisitely well made, the blades are too. When his fingers touch the pommel, she can see how well it would fit his hand. He looks over at her and she realizes that he’s looking for her reaction. The swords have spilled so much blood, but Goliath has witnessed it. If the swords prove half as brave and useful as him, then they belong here.

“Not against you,” she says to Squirrel.

“I’m not ‘allowed’,” he says, “not yet.”

“Try them on,” she says to Lancelot. He takes the blades, “hold on,” she says, immediately seeing the problem, “put them on the cloth.”

She takes the blade off her belt, still not used to dealing with the new style of dress. He’s never worn armor. It echoes in her head as she uses the knife to add new holes to the belts. He’s never worn it but the belts were clearly designed for the option. Not that a lack of armor has stopped him or saved any lives. She makes the new hole. Her hands hesitate for only a moment before she picks up the swords and holds them out to him.

“Now they should fit,” she says.

He settles them around his hips and nods, his eyes lingering on her.   
  
“You look like a Fey,” Arthur remarks, drawing their attention. His eyes linger on the blades now resting at Lancelot’s side, “I see you got your swords back.”

“And you rightfully have one,” Lancelot replies.

“I could do with a rematch,” Arthur says.

Pym isn’t sure how the two have started circling each other. They are friends now. But both seem eager to test their skill.

“Let them get it out of their systems,” Kaze advises.

“Get what out?” Pym questions.

“You’ll see,” Gawain says as they draw their blades.

It’s the most like himself she’s seen Gawain look. So she ignores the healer in her and the reminder that very soon it won’t be friends who meet on the battlefield and watches them fight.


	63. Tinder: Part 21

“Oh, hello,” Bedivere says, plainly surprised to see him again, “what are you doing here?” He rises up and Lancelot shakes his head, “alright,” he says, easing himself back down.

Lancelot isn’t sure what he’s doing here. Eydis and Abbott Wicklow have been spotted and so they ride at dawn to fight in what promises to be the first of many battles for the throne. Those who cannot fight or are too young are staying. Pym and Squirrel among them. They plan to build their base from this place. He has no reason to be down here in Bedivere's cell. Being inside the walls to care for others is acceptable if not slightly uncomfortable. But Pym is alive with nothing more than slight sniffles and sore feet. The unpleasant but tolerable feeling holds. Coming here, speaking to Bedivere, all of it seems far more like risking something he shouldn’t. And yet his feet have taken him here. Father Bedivere looks at him and it’s quiet except for the beads in his hand moving gently against each other. They stare at each other silently until Bedivere breaks first.

“Lancelot?”

“I killed Paladins,” he says. Bedivere’s face slides into something neutral, “by nightfall tomorrow, I’ll have killed many more. An Abbot and the Trinity Guard will be among them.”

Bedivere leans back and Lancelot realizes he’s holding his breath.

“Are you here to confess?” Bedivere asks, not unkindly.

“I don’t know.”

He’s not sure what possesses him to sit across from the Priest. It feels traitorous, sitting here with him. Traitorous and pathetic. The Fey are willing to accept him, fight with him in brotherhood. And here he is, struggling with a God that has rejected him. Feeling once again like an enemy in a costume, who can be accepted if he is useful but ultimately will always be an other. He’s not sure why that drives him back to a place of rejection. He feels the familiar frustration welling up, though the despair is more absent.

“I’ve been given armor.”

Bedivere cringes.

Lancelot doesn’t know why it makes him feel angry and disappointed. It was acceptable, even to him. If he was hurt, God saw fit to have him be cleansed. If he was not, then God looked on his actions favorably. Father told him that he could not follow the rules that the other Paladins did, they did not apply to him. He was demon born. His road to Salvation was a more difficult one. There was less freedom in it. He knows now how much of a lie that was. But his heart still wonders if he had been more devoted to it, could he have felt the Grace he always strove for? Or did that not exist either?

“That’s good,” Bedivere says.

“It’s Fey.”

“You need protection.”

Lancelot loathes the logic in his voice, even though he’s told himself the same thing. The protection is important. Goliath has his armor, which has become some mix of Paladin and Raider leather, held together with Fey workmanship. Why should he turn down the same? Or have any feelings on it at all?

“I thought God was supposed to protect us,” he counters.

Bedivere suddenly looks old. Lancelot recognizes the guilt on his face even as he turns his head down. He gets to his feet. Lancelot watches as he crosses the small distance and sits next to him, so they both are staring at the same place in the wall.

“God has protected you.”

“My abilities have nothing to do with God—“

“Of course they do. They are a gift.”

Lancelot thinks of that night and the sword falling and the look in Father’s eyes. He looked mad, he thinks. And the excitement that someone could take from injuring a child is repulsive, it was repulsive even before he broke free. Even when he believed everything else.

“Father said the same thing.”

“He lied,” Bedivere says, putting the beads aside. Lancelot looks at him, “or perhaps he believed, but his intentions were always to use you.”

“Do you believe Fey are demon born?”

Bedivere looks at him.

“No,” he says, “and I feel foolish for ever thinking otherwise. It should not have taken the Moon Wings kindness to make me see that.”

“But you believe in God.”

“The Paladins were not my first teachers,” Bedivere says, “when they cast me out—eve before that—I saw them as men. As peers,” he explains, “we were all Men of the Cloth. If I am a man, then so are they.”

It makes a perverse sense to him. But it also speaks of his own weakness. The Ash Folk knew that children were weak. Inherently. Protecting their secrets was worth all their lives. He isn’t sure if he knew what was coming or if they had let him be ignorant. He just remembers being told to be brave and doing the exact opposite. The voice that told him to be brave then echoes with Father’s tone, telling him the same thing.

“I am not,” Lancelot says.

“No,” Bedivere agrees, “you are not. But you know our ways, no Fey can say that,” he looks at him curiously and Bedivere continues, “I believe that God has kept you alive for that reason. To stand in both worlds,” something must show on Lancelot’s face because sympathy shines in Bedivere’s eyes, “it’s not a position I envy. But I can think of no-one else who could handle it better.”

Lancelot doesn’t know how there can be any trust between them after what they have been through. No more than he knows how to pray anymore. He isn’t even sure what he expected when he came into the cell. Perhaps some connection with the past, even as he turns to the future. Or maybe some reminder of the lessons of it, so as not to repeat it a third time. Though these Fey have far more of a right to want him dead than any of the other groups that have tried to kill him.

“I need to ask you a favor,” Lancelot says.

“Anything,” Bedivere promises.

  
“There’s another prisoner here. She’s asked that you hear her confession. If I do not return, will you honor that?”

He’s not sure any others will understand. Except perhaps Pym but if he dies, he imagines she will be busy. He doesn’t know why it’s important, considering it’s a surprise Tristain didn’t lead them back to her fellow Guards. She still wants him dead. But if he dies, then any chance of her being not immediately killed is gone. Lancelot is not a good like Gawain, the idea of reaching out to her is laughable. Perhaps she does deserve to rot in the cell, but he imagines that the argument could be made he does as well. He remembers the foreign feeling of kindness. He can do this one thing. Bedivere nods at the request.

“I’ll hear her confession,” Bedivere says. Lancelot nods his thanks, “I will hear yours as well, if you wish to give it.”

“I cannot,” he says.

“I wouldn’t ask you to flog yourself,” Bedivere says. Lancelot looks over at him, “to repent, I don’t think God wishes for us to do that.”

Lancelot knows he will be asked to pray. And he cannot. Not in the way he once did. His Faith has been shaken, if it exists at all. Perhaps his Faith was as twisted as all the other things Father Carden put upon him. With Father Bedivere’s promise, he pushes himself up. He hears him straighten up as well, though he remains seated.

“God has not forgotten about you,” Bedivere says, “and—if you change your mind,” he smiles, “I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s a joke and a promise all in one. Lancelot finds he can do nothing but nod.

He picks his way through, not back to the main room but to the smaller chapel. It can barely be called such. The church they’re in isn’t grand. It’s not like some of the great Cathedrals he’s heard about or the few he’s visited. But there are quiet offshoots. He settles into one, looking at the cross. God is as absent here as He is everywhere else. And Lancelot doesn’t have it in him to beg. So he sits until he hears someone approaching.

As she approaches, he realizes he can recognize her gait.

It’s thrown off by her scraped feet, but it strikes him as odd that he can recognize her by it and not just by her scent. She walks to where he’s sitting and gives him a curious look. He doesn’t hesitate in nodding to let her know she can join him. She comes inside and joins him, sitting next to him.

“Are we allowed to talk in here?” He nods, “is this usually how you spend the night before a battle?”

“I usually prayed.”

“For what?”

He looks over at her. She shrugs and looks at the cross.

“I just prayed,” he says, “I tried to repent for being demon born.”

“Which you aren’t,” she points out. He only hesitates a moment before nodding, “what will you pray for now?”

He wonders how there’s no accusation in her tone. She’s never felt God’s Grace, horrible things have been done to her kind in His name. And yet she seems able to separate the faith from the men who enforce it in a way he hasn’t figured out. She doesn’t belittle his beliefs or mock him for being there. She asks a simple question, one that shouldn’t set off the emotions it does.

“I don’t know,” he says, “the only prayers I’ve said of late have been to put out the Fire.”

“But that’s just how you do that,” she says, “it was the only thing I could think of in the moment. It’s you who’s putting it out. That’s just how your body understands it.”

He knows she has a point. Though now he better understands what Squirrel was saying about being hungry and eating. He knows what that feels like now. He know more about the mundane things Pym and Squirrel talk about. It’s not something he ever expected, but then he never expected them either.

“It was a smart idea,” he says.

“Thank you,” the silence settles oddly over them, as it has been doing and he isn’t certain why. Before either of their faces can get hotter, she clears her throat, “Gawain would meditate, back when he had to do ‘such thing’s,” she says.

“I’ve been teaching Squirrel,” he tells her.

“That’s good,” she says with a smile.

He does not know how long they sit there for. Though he cannot find it in himself to pray, he can find that quiet headspace he’s taught Squirrel to go to. Perhaps that is the most like praying he will be able to do. It’s not the same. It is a comfort though. More than he should expect anyway. He’s not sure when he nods off.

He opens his eyes to the cold pre-dawn.

His cheek is resting on Pym’s head and hers has fallen onto his shoulder. Somehow in the night he’s angled himself towards her, making up the difference in their height. The crown of her head is nearly in the crook of his neck. He can feel her breath against his healed skin and his scars. It’s an odd but not unpleasant feeling. The warmth against his cheek has made it easier to rest somehow. He realizes that he cannot remember his dreams. It’s the kind of deep sleep that is new to him, one he only seems capable of when he’s around her and Squirrel.

One he doesn’t know if he will get again.

The thought shouldn’t frighten him. This is no different from fights that he’s had before. He knows that he is fighting on the correct side, of at least he is fighting for something he believes. But it is the first time he’s gone into battle knowing there is something he wants to come back to. It will not be the last time. Whatever the future holds, if he survives this battle or this war, there will be others. There will always be others. It’s never been something he’s questioned or thought about not wanting. He’s not even certain he truly wants something else.

His eyes drift to the cross on the wall.

Something settles over him, something he cannot explain. He’s afraid to think too hard on it, to dare hope it may be what he wants it to be. Pym’s head is on his left shoulder. He’s careful not to disturb her as he moves his right hand in the familiar gesture and lowers his head. The feeling doesn’t go away. It envelopes him, like a caress. It’s not tangible, it’s not even intangible in the way the energy he pulls is. Though it seems to be the most familiar thing he can think of. It does not matter what has happened, just like the Fire does not understand being used for death or life. It’s like Gawain, like Morgana, like Nimue slipping below the water. It is beyond all of this.

Lancelot prays.

Not for salvation but for guidance, for the safety of those around him. For peace for those who will die. The sun creeps higher as he does. He’s still praying when he feels Pym stir, though she does not move. Not until he makes the sign again. Only then when he looks over does she open her eyes and seem to wake.

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods.

Neither of them speak as they go to the hears room where Pym has things ready. There are more beds nearby, a remind of what is to come. It’s easier to don the armor a second time, even if it still feels foreign to him. Pym stands nearby. When he turns to face her, he doesn’t feel like himself but he feels ready for what will come.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you the amulet,” she says.

“Squirrel needs it,” He reminds her. She sighs and nods, they both know no matter how much he’s watched the chances of him getting free and getting into trouble are much higher, “you’ll keep him close?”

“I’ll tie him to me if I have to,” she says.

“It won’t work if you use your magic.”

“Lancelot, I’ll keep him close,” she repeats, “and if he escapes, you’ve trained him well. He’ll be alright. We’ll be here when you return.”

He glances away, knowing he needs to trust her. She and Squirrel have survived the people he’s fighting. They can keep themselves safe. He owes them that much respect, even if there is a part of him that is screaming at the idea of leaving them unattended.

“Keep your knife close,” he says.

“Now you sound like Guinevere,” she scolds, but the usual humor is gone from her voice. He knows that it’s time, “Come back?” He looks at her sharply, “it’s your choice, what you’re willing to do or not to do. I don’t know how you go into battle,” she bites her lip, “I want you to come back, if you’re taking suggestions.”

“I will,” she nods but the look doesn’t reach the rest of her face like it does when she believes him, “I want to as well.”

She nods, believing that.

“Then I’ll see you when you return.”

He nods.

“Be careful,” she calls after him.

Lancelot finds Squirrel by Goliath. The horse is lipping at the boy’s hand affectionately. Lancelot can smell apples in the air. Goliath is saddled and everything is in place and he realizes why Squirrel has been absent this morning. It’s the kind of thing a Squire would do. But Squirrel does it without complaint or his usual snark. Lancelot wishes that he had something comforting to say to him. Instead he pulls one of the short swords he’s taken from one of the Paladins and hands it to him.

“Keep your guard up. And keep Pym safe,” he orders.

Squirrel clutches the sword and nods.

“Oh, wait—“ he pats himself down and grabs a cloth, handing it to him, “I saved you bread. In case you got hungry.”

Lancelot nods to him and climbs into the saddle. Squirrel looks up at him in a wide eyed way that Lancelot is surprised the boy is capable of anymore. From the higher angle, he still checks to make sure the amulet is around the boy’s neck, not snuck into his saddle. But the black cord is there.

“Take care,” Squirrel says.

“You as well,” Lancelot tells him, glancing up to see Pym standing in the doorway. It feels like a lifetime ago when he cut Squirrel free and looked down at him, ordering him to go. Now he does not cut him free, but he still nods at him. “Go.”

And he still watches as Squirrel runs.

Then he turns Goliath and heads in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this or have any other feedback, let me know! Thank you for the tumblr messages, the comments, kudos etc. It means so much to me and it helps me with my motivation. See you next chapter!


	64. Tinder: Part 22

She finds Squirrel sitting with the horse.

He looks very small and she sees her own worries reflected on his face. She’s been trying not to think of Dof, she’s sure Squirrel has been trying not to think of Gawain. Though the other horse does not have Goliath’s uncanny abilities, she imagines those will come with time. The thought of watching all four of them ride off into battle makes her heart ache but she knows that is a ways off. Or perhaps Merlin’s vision means she will be dead before it comes to pass. Not losing more people sounds wonderful, even if it’s because she goes first. She pushes the worry aside as well. She’s here to see about Squirrel, who has a long life ahead of him.

“The horse still needs a name,” she says, joining him in the grass.

“He’s going to be alright, isn’t he?” 

“He’s the best fighter we have,” she says, “and he can heal.”

“I mean inside,” Squirrel says, “he’s not fighting them to protect us. He’s not going to stop talking again right?”

There’s fear on his face. Fear Pym wasn’t aware she shared. It’s true, every time Lancelot has gone into a fight and killed his former brothers, it’s been because one of them is in danger. Usually her, if she thinks about the most recent times. It’s just bad luck or proximity. But when he’s killed to keep them safe, there’s a peace to him. Or at least an understanding of what he’s fighting for. Without them there—immediately she chastises herself.

“He’s fighting to keep our friends safe,” she says, “his friends safe. It’s the same thing.”

“No it’s not,” Squirrel says.

“What do you mean?”

“We were his friends first,” he says, “it’s different with us,” he looks at her, “we’re more than friends. We’re bound together, remember?”

Pym know that they are but it’s the same kind of thinking that makes her insides squirm. Like when she watched him and Kaze fight. Communicating so effortlessly, in a way she’s not sure she’ll ever understand. She refuses to entertain such things like that feeling. She’s not a girl watching her friend parade around in another new dress. She would wear a sack if she could have Nimue and their friendship back like when they were girls. She refuses to name the feeling though, that’s one step farther than she’s able to go.

“Us being friends first doesn’t mean we’re his only friends,” she says to Squirrel, “I think he’ll be alright protecting his other friends—our friends.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Squirrel says, folding his arms.

Pym sighs and wishes that she didn’t. Lancelot needs others—he has others—that is important.

“I don’t,” Pym says, trying to get at what he actually means.

“Yes you do, that’s why you two always sneak off together,” Squirrel says.

“He’s talked with others—“

“But he wants to talk to you,” Squirrel cuts in, unwilling to take her explanations, “and you want to talk to him. That’s why he could kill for you and not feel bad about it.”

Pym feels her mouth go dry.

There are the oddest times when someone will point out something and she’ll feel like ice has been dropped down the back of her dress. She sometimes felt that way when people would question what Nimue would do for the one friend they thought of her having. Though Nimue always did her best to keep her powers tucked away, Pym’s not sure that even she knew the full extent of them before she went into the Lake. And even if she had, Pym would never have asked.

Lancelot is different.

That physical language that she doesn’t speak, it seems to betray her to him at every turn. He’s also not afraid of his powers. He’s afraid of what they mean, what they could condemn him to, of breaking the rules his people had for them. But she’s never actually seen him afraid of the powers themselves. She’d only heard stories about Fey Fire. Now she knows Squirrel is right and if she asked, through some twisted combination of his lingering indoctrination to follow orders and their closeness, she thinks she could burn the entire village down. She thinks about how many times in those early days she demanded he heal himself. The Fire is just one step further.

“He was killing people who hurt him,” she says, “the last two, he felt bad about it.”

“He’d still do it.”

Pym presses her lips together. She has the strangest urge to go find Lancelot and tell him he shouldn’t kill anyone for her. But he’s not anywhere she can go. She doesn’t like the feeling of it. Logically she knows that he’s gone but she has the strangest urge to go looking for him. Even though Squirrel is embarrassingly right. They have been together more than they’ve been apart. At least since they got to the Church, but before that as well if she’s being honest with herself. Even when she had hidden away in her grief, there were quiet things like fresh water or food or herbs. Things that just seemed to appear. She realizes Lancelot was never as far as she thought.

There was a time when that would have filled her with dread.

Now it’s like an itch to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye.

“He’ll be back and we’ll deal with—whatever has happened then,” she says firmly.

“He’ll tell you,” Squirrel says, “he thinks I’m too young.”

“Not for much longer,” Pym promises, “if he tells me and there’s a way for you to help, I’ll get you,” she adds.

Squirrel sighs and doesn’t look particularly thrilled at the prospect, but he nods anyway. Pym knows it must be maddening. But the fact that everyone seems united in their desire to preserve whatever scrap of innocence the young ones have managed to cling to is something she’s glad for. It’s one of the few things that’s required no compromise or discussion. When she thinks of how she’s seen the Fey treat little ones they don’t like, she’s glad that’s something they are all united in changing.

“I hate waiting,” Squirrel admits.

“I do as well,” Pym agrees, looking at the trees. She tries not to think that in the next day or so they may wish for it, “he really does need a name,” she says.

Squirrel looks over at the horse who raises his head slightly before dropping it back down. But he steps closer to them. She supposes that’s something, even without Lancelot or Gawain or Goliath there to train him. Though the horse more than proved his bravery their first few days together. It’s hard to remember how crazy and chaotic they were, how much she longed to get back to the rest of them instead of being off on some insane adventure. Never in a thousand years did she think that she would long for those days, if only for the simple fact that the three of them were together and could look out for each other.

“I need to check on Merlin,” she says.

“I’ll come with you,” Squirrel replies, scrambling to his feet.

Pym gives him a curious look but he just falls into step besides her, scanning around as though he’s looking for threats. They head to the healer room though it’s spread out into more. Pym isn’t sure how she’s going to manage but tells herself she will just have to figure it out. Merlin is occupying one of the beds, he looks drawn but overall not nearly as terrible as she’s seen him. He raises his arm off his eyes and looks at both of them.

“There should be one more. Perhaps two,” he says.

“How are you feeling?” Pym asks.

”Physically worse than I have in decades,” he says, pushing himself up, “and emotionally,” he looks at her, “it’s how I usually am around High Summoners.”

“I already told you—“

“You’re not,” Merlin finishes and Pym clenches her jaw, “but you are.”

“Only because there is literally no-one else,” Pym says, “and only until the Hidden pick someone properly, if they chose. Have you been drinking? Water?”

Merlin looks at her and Pym has the strangest urge to push Squirrel out of the room before he can open his mouth. But letting Squirrel out of her sight is not an option. Better to let him be her shadow than run off after Lancelot and the others. No matter what he may overhear. Though she’s thinking of the city Merlin spoke of, the one he does not see her in, the thing she doesn’t want him to say around Squirrel, when Merlin’s gaze slides over to Percival, the urge to push him out of the room increases.

“I see they left you behind to guard us,” he says.

“They left me behind because I’m too young,” Squirrel says, “for now.”

“For now but not for always,” Merlin tells him, “you should treasure these times. Soon you’ll be riding off with them. And then you’ll be on a great adventure of your own.”

The change in his words makes Pym’s stomach drop. The look on Merlin’s face as he looks at Squirrel makes her step closer to him. Even Squirrel, who is usually the first for an adventure, looks somewhat nervous. Pym isn’t sure if it’s the look on his face or his words or the fact that Lancelot isn’t there, but Squirrel doesn’t look excited at either prospect.

“Merlin,” she says his name warningly and doesn’t regret it as he looks back at her, but the fearful feeling grows worse. She raises her chin, “enough with the riddles. Did you drink water?”

Merlin seems to come back to himself somewhat and the look eases slightly. Grudgingly he nods, shifting from terrifying druid to pouting patient with a speed that makes Pym’s head spin. Or maybe the kinds of monsters Merlin and Lancelot were twisted into don’t like scaring children. Either way if he stops she’s glad of it. She glances around the room for any sign he’s lying or telling the truth or hiding something. None appears. But the look on his face is gone and at the moment that matters more than she cares to admit.

“What does your book say about when I’ll go back to normal?”

“It doesn’t,” she says, “just how to help you recover from what you put your body through.”

Merlin makes a sound of disgust and Pym doesn’t blame him for his frustration. Going from being powerful to powerless is something she thinks would probably drive her mad and certainly has been a problem for the people she knows who have that kind of power. Even those like Merlin who have managed to to survive the rollercoaster.

“That’s disappointing,” he says.

“Yes,” she agrees, “but we’ll help.”

“What makes you think you can?” Merlin asks.

Pym doesn’t have a good response for that even as he looks at her patiently, waiting for a reply. Her mind goes to the people fighting. There were other healers the last time, but most of them left to Avalon. It’s just her. For now. But now is all that matters. It’s her and the book and a position she has not earned nor feels capable of being in. She thinks anyone would be better suited to it. Even her Uncle who was more coward than healer. Anything remotely miraculous she’s done as a healer has been because of poor strikes or Lancelot’s ability to heal. She can’t say she’s particularly sure of either of those things being the case this time.

“I don’t,” she says, “but I’m the only healer you’ve got at the moment, and I may not be great but I’m better than no healer.”

“Let’s hope that’s true,” Merlin says.

“Hey—“ Squirrel starts.

“Stop,” she says, cutting him off, “he’s immortal, this is just more riddles,” she tells him, “he’s right, we need to hope what I’ve learned from the book is enough.”

She is amazed she gets them both out without Merlin mentioning the great city or what adventure Squirrel will one day go on. She doesn’t want to hear more about either of them. Now is what matters. The future is something to be worried about later. She keeps Squirrel close even as she wishes for a moment with her own thoughts. Unfortunately that isn’t what the world intends. She can sacrifice the selfish desire to keep him safe, as others are laying down their own lives to keep all of them safe.

“Don’t be worried,” Squirrel says, “Lancelot’s going to be fine.”

“I’m not worried about him,” Pym says and it’s only partially a lie, “there’s others with him.”

“They’ll be fine too, he’s with them,” Squirrel points out.

Pym nods but the knot in her stomach doesn’t go away. Which is foolish because it has been hours and she’s waited for Raiders to come back before. They’re good fighters. But she thinks of the numbers in the camp and the ones riding to join them and it doesn’t make her feel any better.

That bad feeling doesn’t go away and the hours seem to creep by. It’s supposed to be longer than it actually is, though she’s not sure if it’s a good or a bad sign that it’s barely been a day before some return.

“There you are,” Guinevere snaps as she walks in. Like Pym has been hiding. Pym doesn’t cringe away as she walks over and sits herself on the table, “I’m an only child.”

“You know that’s supposed to be for someone injured,” Pym starts. Guinevere reaches for the lacing at the neck of her vest, curses and tries again. Pym feels her mouth go dry and moves forward, pulling out her knife, “where are you injured?”

“The scratch is superficial,” Guinevere says “ribs.”

Pym cuts through the lacing. Blood slicks her tunic but it’s not a lot, there’s just two scratches high on her ribs. But the smell is rancid and almost makes her gag. When she pulls away the fabric, she can see the scratches are pink and puffed, black is beginning to darken their edges.

“Is there another section for the poisoned?” Guinevere demands. Pym looks up at her, “don’t tell me, you’ve never dealt with it before.”

“I haven’t,” she says honestly, “but—“  
  
“Shut up and cut my ribs off,” Guinevere snaps.

She makes a noise of disgust and lays down as Pym grabs the book to find the answers, hoping that the poison’s been encountered before. Without Guinevere, this is all for nothing and she refuses to think about it. She begins to thumb through the book. She tells herself that Guinevere hasn’t gone paler in the few moments that she’s been here. It’s just not possible. She hears the door open and forces herself to read another page before she looks over.

He’s covered in mud, blood and she doesn’t want to guess what else. She wonders momentarily how many times Fey have escaped with their lives only to see him and realize how futile that escape was. She wonders if the Paladins now know what that feels like. If they even recognize him looking as he does. His eyes move from Guinevere to her.

“Are you hurt?” She asks.

“He can heal!” Guinevere snaps from the bed.

Lancelot shakes his head.

“Who did this?” Pym asks.

“Eydis,” he says, “but the poison was from a Trinity Guard.”

Pym nods, looking at the black lines on her skin. She turns another page in the book before setting it down and getting to her feet. There’s no point in looking there. Lancelot seems to be thinking along the same lines she is, though Pym is sure it’s no great leap if this is poison from the Trinity Guards.

“If you two are sneaking off again—“ Guinevere starts.

“Lay still and try to stay calm,” Pym orders, “I’m going to talk to Tristain.”

Guinevere groans but whether that’s because of the pain, her frustration or something else Pym can’t say. She has to be imagining the lines fanning out farther. But she’s not planning on wasting any time with it. She just hopes Tristain is feeling helpful or they have something else that she wants.

All of their futures may depend on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Thank you for all your messages/kudos/comments etc. They are beyond appreciated as we get into this. Onwards!


	65. Tinder: Part 23

His only focus is on getting the antidote.

Dimly, Lancelot is aware of the others speaking, but his focus is on that thought. The same one that it’s been around since he was ordered to get her back here and get her help. Winning or losing this battle is ultimately not as important as Guinevere and her claim. She needs to be alive when they take Cumber out. She needs to take the throne. He’s pushed Goliath hard and the horse rose spectacularly to the occasion, they’ve beaten everyone else back and made it with Guinevere suffering nothing more than muscle spasms and the occasional tremor. That in itself should be miraculous. He thinks to tell Pym to stay there but if she hears the solution from Tristain then she can do it quicker. The less is lost in translation.

He opens the door to the cell. Her cooperation has bought her a longer chain between her cuffs, though it’s still iron and if she uses it to harm herself, it will be replaced with the shorter one or she’ll be killed. She has it laid on the floor and pushes her body up and down over it methodically, pausing when her elbows are bent and her collarbones are just above the links. She glances up when they arrive but doesn’t stop her movements. The familiar frustration that comes with people’s lack of fear is back, but it’s worse with the Trinity Guards. He’s always found them infuriating, almost as much as he used to long to be one.

“We need the antidote to your poisons,” he says.

She doesn’t reply.

He waits a moment longer before stepping into the cell.

She tucks her feet up and rolls into a standing position, faster than he would have expected for someone who spent the time she has without moving. But not as fast as she was the first night they met. Not that speed would make a difference in this case. She has the iron chain, but he is properly armed. Her eyes dart from the sword to his armor before meeting his face.

“The deal was that I’d cooperate,” she says, “not betray my people—“

  
“They are not your people,” he counters, “they would have come for you.”

“They would be my people if you hadn’t shown them the Fire,” she spits back, “coward.”

He ignores the jab. His focus is on getting the antidote, not dealing with Tristain’s jabs. Being a prisoner has not dampened her entitlement or her belief that she is fundamentally better than him. As a Guard she outranked him, but how she came to that rank he cannot say. He had been told the Pope would never allow a Fey in the Trinity Guard, but that was clearly never the case. He thinks of the few memories he has of the island and the Ash Folk.  
  
“Enough people have died for the Fire,” he says, “little ones—“

“You are proof that killing them was the right thing to do,” she snaps.

  
“Tristain,” Pym says her name and she rips her glare to look at her, “what do you want in return for it?”

“I am not for sale,” Tristain says.

“It’s not you,” Pym replies, “it’s the antidote to a poison that will save someone. That someone can help you. You chose to stay here,” she reminds her, “not go to Avalon.”

“Yes because he needs to die,” she says.

“Fine,” he replies. His life is forfeit if it means Guinevere lives and a new world is built. It’s a fair price.

“Not fine!” Pym cuts in, “why does he need to die? It won’t buy you back into the Guard.”

Tristain looks between the pair of them.

“You haven’t told her?” Pym looks curiously at him and at Tristain. He takes his eyes from the Guard to look at her blankly. He has no idea what Tristain is talking about. What secret he’s supposed to be keeping, “Ash Folk aren’t ruled by men,” she says, “I may not be a member of the Guard anymore, but I’m honor bound to kill you for revealing the Fire to outsiders.”

Lancelot thinks back to the few memories. He remembers an uncle who wanted to cut his throat, even though the man’s face is foggy at best. And in the mists he remembers crying out for people, but he cannot remember if they were women or men. If he thinks back even farther, to the faint voices that tell him what he knows of the Ash Folk, how important it is to keep their secrets, it’s a male voice who tells him first and a female voice that impresses the importance on him. Like Father would. He does remember the way Father looked at the place, but Lancelot thought his disgust was for the Fey Folk. Not for Fey Folk who let their women lead.

“They are not outsiders,” he says.

Tristain looks at him with complete disgust. The familiarity of the look is not lost on him. It was the way the others looked when he ran from the beach as the Paladins arrived. Unwilling to make the sacrifice they demanded of him. He knows he did the cowardly thing, that he was a coward then. Like he was a coward after Father cut him down and he never tried to escape again. But there is no mark on Tristain that says they tried to do the same to her. He remembers girls on the beach though, it wasn’t just boys who were killed. He ignores her jabs and disgust and focuses again on what truly matters.

“What do you want for the antidote?”

“Your life,” she says.

“Absolutely not.”

Lancelot doesn’t want to be frustrated with her, but he very much wishes she didn’t place so much importance on his life. Not in comparison to the person who will lead them. Who is leading them. He thinks she should understand, all things considered, that Guinevere is more important than him. But the look on her face is stubborn and out of the corner of his eye he sees Squirrel has snuck in with the blade that he gave him. Which he should have expected. But if Pym won’t allow him to trade his life, Squirrel will get in the middle of it and he’s armed the boy.

“What if I take you to the Priest?”

“I am not for sale!” Tristain says, outrage heavy in her voice, “the Ash Folk—“

“You don’t know the Ash Folk,” Squirrel says.

Suddenly Lancelot wishes the boy would just spit in her face.

“Everyone always says I’m too young for things and Lancelot was my age when the Paladins came. And you’re younger than he is, so you must have been very little when they came.”

Tristain’s eyes narrow and the anger seems to shift. Lancelot drops his hand to the sword in an unmistakable warning. He doesn’t doubt that she’s fast with the chain, but he is the one whose armed. He doubts she’s been in many fights without her fellow Guards and a tactical advantage. Her anger does let him see that Squirrel is probably right. She is younger than he is. The black marks on her face make it difficult to tell, but the truth is he hasn’t spent a lot of time around women or really around anyone whose age he needs to guess. There are little ones and then there is everyone else.

“I know the ways of the Ash Folk,” she says.

“From stories,” Squirrel says, “it’s okay, I’m only really going to know the Sky Folk from stories.”

“Not just from stories,” Tristain cuts in, “you don’t remember because you blocked it out. Like the traitor you are.”

He sees a flash of red and puts a hand out to stop Pym. They cannot afford her outrage at him being insulted. No more than they can afford for him to be upset. Her words are nothing compared to some of the things he has been called. And those words are just words. He knows of much worse.

“You cannot follow the Ash Folk ways and the ways of the Church,” he says.

“And how,” Tristain says, “would you know that?”

Lancelot has no retort because if he thinks about it, what he does know is eerily similar. Traitors being brutally punished, retribution for dissent. There’s a military aspect to both and when the thinks of it, the burning is also something they share. Better to be martyred than be a traitor. Somehow he sees that he’s chosen the latter with both, when given the choice.

“What happens to Ash Folk who are traitors? If they don’t get killed?” Pym asks. Tristain looks at her, “surely not everyone was killed.”

“You don’t run from the Fire,” Tristain says.

“That can’t be true,” Pym says, “my uncle ran from the Sky Folk,” she offers, “the High Summoner punished his family and said he couldn’t return, but she didn’t want to waste resources looking for him. And we had a lot more resources back then. But there was a procedure—“

“The Sky Folk knew nothing of war,” Tristain cuts in.

“That’s true,” Pym says, “so it’s only death?” Tristain nods, “how?”

“With Fire,” Tristain says.

There’s a moment of silence and then Lancelot moves forward, undoing the locks of her shackles. His fingers burn but he doesn’t care. If there is one way to kill a traitor and Tristain is determined to do it properly from stories she’s been told, then the answer is right here. He’s aware of Pym and Squirrel and he knows they mean well to protect him, but he needs their trust more than he needs the gesture.

“Stand back,” he says.

Miraculously they do.

He throws the shackles aside and drops down. It’s the first time in months she’s been without them and she can’t resist rubbing her wrists. Then she looks at him kneeling there, throat exposed. Her eyes drag to the sword but if she does that, she kills him as a Guard. He’d be dead either way, but he can see this is about something else. She glares down at him, the glare going more and more venomous. Her breathing becomes audible as her control slips. Finally she lets out a wordless sound and turns away angrily, burying her fist in the wall.

“Tell me how to save her and I’ll teach you.”

“I do not need lessons from a traitor!”

“You have no other choice,” he says.

He sees Pym relax. She looks livid but not terrified and he knows she’s caught on. Tristain may have stories of the ways of the Ash Folk. Maybe she grew up with her parents, maybe they escaped the island or hid her or handed her over to the Paladins. He doesn’t know. But if she only has stories and has kept the fanatical belief that the Fire is just for the Ash Folk, then she’s never used it. She may be able to heal and make it instinctively, but she needs the fuel. She doesn’t know how to make Fey Fire like he can. She can’t do it unaided or control it. And if she is determined to kill him in that particular way, then she needs to be trained. That gives them time.

“What does it look like?”

“Wait, no,” Pym cuts in. He turns to her and she ignores him, “this is a trade for lessons. It is not for you to kill him. Agreed?”

“Lessons and I get to keep those off,” she says, looking at the shackles.

“Until you can make the Fire. Then we talk about those. And you still need to behave or you don’t get to confess. The Priest remains locked up.”

Something shifts.

“You’re locking him up?” She asks. Lancelot nods, “lessons and the Priest is unlocked and free to move around,” she says. She looks at Pym, “I have your word?”

“The Priest will be allowed to move around and be unlocked,” Pym says, “you have my word.”

Tristain hesitates for only a moment and then nods. Lancelot doesn’t know why the thought makes him nervous. Either it’s the anger still on Pym’s face or it’s the concern about Bedivere being around the Fey. For his safety and for theirs. But he supposes Bedivere’s freedom is better than giving up his life.

“What does it look like?”

“Black lines, it smells rancid.”

The list she gives is long but the moment she says they’ll need Moon Wing silk, he knows that their next stop is Father Bedivere. He seems surprised when they open the door and Lancelot doesn’t understand how things can constantly surprise him. But he remembers him being like that even as a Paladin. His eyes drag over Lancelot and he mutters something like a prayer, making a blessing and reaching for his beads.

“I’m sorry,” Pym says, “Guinevere’s been poisoned and you’re the one person we know has Moon Wing silk.”

“You’re also free to leave,” Lancelot adds, “but we need those.”

“Oh, yes of course,” Bedivere kisses the beads and hands them over, “can I help?”

“Thank you—I’ll restring them too,” Pym says, taking off.

Lancelot motions him out. No-one tells him to leave so he follows them, back into the room. The other Raiders are around but they move immediately as Pym hurries forward. The doors open and everyone can see Guinevere sitting there with her top open, fingers clenched on the cot. She’s got her legs braced now as well, but there’s no hiding the tremors and spasms. She’s gotten paler too and Lancelot can see the black lines have spread farther along her skin. Kaze glances at Bors and then turns back to her.

“What did you give the Fey?” Guinevere questions.

“Lessons on how to use Fey Fire and Bedivere not being locked up,” Guinevere makes a sound of disgust, “she wanted Lancelot’s life.”

Guinevere whips her head over to him.

“She wants to kill me with Fey Fire.”

“Absolutely not,” Guinevere says, “where’s Arthur? Bring him back here.”

Pym glances at Kaze.

“Neither of them have very good beside manner,” She says, “Guinevere was just conscious.”

Pym sighs and nods before turning back to what she’s doing. Lancelot watches her work quickly. Thankfully the rest of the ingredients she seems to have. She uses her magic to undo the knots in the moon wings thread and carefully takes off the beads and adornments, putting them into her pocket. He notices she cuts off a small piece of the silk and slips it in there as well before adding the rest of it. Lancelot drags his eyes away as Arthur comes running in. His face falls at the sight of how much worse Guinevere looks.

“He is not allowed to sacrifice himself,” she says, turning away to wince before looking back at him. When she turns he can see the black lines feathering up her neck, “I don’t care how you keep him alive but he stays alive.”

“Can you—“ Pym starts and Guinevere rounds on her, looking very nearly insane.

“What else do you need?” Arthur asks quickly.

“We’re all ready. You just need to drink some of this and the rest goes on your wound.”

“If it kills me—“

“It won’t,” Arthur cuts in.

“Don’t interrupt me, if it does I want Cumber and that prisoner dead or I’ll haunt everyone in this damn room.”

Lancelot doesn’t know how he left her, even on her orders. Even when it came to logic. Lancelot is a faster rider with a better horse who knew the fastest way to get to where they needed to go. It made sense to shove him at her. But if he thinks of their positions being reversed, if it was Squirrel or Pym, he knows he would take the horse and ride himself. He watches as Arthur comes over and stands by her as Pym pours a part of it into the cup and hands it over. Guinevere’s hand shakes but Arthur helps her steady it as she takes it in one shot, coughing and gagging but ultimately keeping it down. Pym adds something to the rest of it and spreads it along her side, wrapping bandages there.

“Well?”

“I think we wait,” Pym says.

“I’m haunting you first,” Guinevere swears, wincing at another spasm, “is there anything you can do about these?”

“Oh, yes,” Pym says, “but nothing you should swallow.”

“How are you the only healer?” she groans as Pym grinds something and comes back over. She hands it to Arthur.

“Since I’m a shit healer,” she says.

Guinevere almost has a miraculous recovery but the opening is apparently all Arthur needs to dip his fingers in. He hesitates until Guinevere gives an angry nod of consent and goes back to glaring at Pym. Lancelot watches them as Guinevere pretends to ignore him and Arthur focuses on the task at hand. Only when more color starts to come back to her face does he relax fractionally. And even then just slightly.

“I think it’s working,” Pym says, “do you feel better?” Guinevere glares, “have your muscles stopped spamming?”

“Yes,” she says.

A cheer goes up among the Raiders. They slowly filter out to go clean up, giving several curious looks at Bedivere. The fight isn’t over by a long shot, but it seems as though Guinevere will survive this. It was close, there will be more close calls. Lancelot knows they will have to talk about her being out on the field if she is so much of a target.

But for the moment she’s alive and that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. You all are amazing. I’m stunned and grateful people are still as into this adventure as I am. Please let me know your thoughts and i’ll see you next chapter!


	66. Tinder: Part 24

Raiders and Fey drift in and out, talking about the fight.

Miraculously Guinevere is the only serious injury. The only one that needs tending to. The alliance between the Paladins, Guards and Cumber’s people should be terrifying. But they have seemingly no idea how to work together. Not when faced with a group who do. They also have no one like Gawain there. Mostly they cheer about Guinevere but they marvel at Lancelot, Arthur and Kaze who seem to have worked as a formidable team. Pym is relieved to hear all of it.

She’s also furious.

When she had told Lancelot she would like it if he came back, she didn’t think that she had to specify came back and stayed alive. Not came back and immediately tried to sacrifice himself at the first opportunity. It reminds her of the boat, when he had asked for death and then when he had seemed resigned to it. It made sense, he wanted it, his own life was meaningless—there were so many stupid reasons. Pym remembers the fear when Guinevere pressed the knife to his throat, even though some small part of her would have been relieved. That part was small then, it’s certainly gone now. It’s foolish because she should have known he would. That going back into battle like that would dig into the part of him that didn’t know how to value his own life.

She doesn’t know how to be supportive of him figuring out what he wants and angry that he seems to want to die still.

Which makes it wholly inconvenient that once she makes sure Guinevere is alright and steps out for some fresh air, he’s the person she runs into.

Naturally when everyone else has gone off to clean up, he’s ignored the dried mud and blood caked on him and gone to Goliath. She watches as he picks the horse’s hooves clean, inspecting the horseshoes. Goliath seems rather disinterested in the whole affair. Or perhaps its just the apple he’s more interested in as he turns his head to take the other piece Lancelot hands him without looking. Pym bites into her tongue to keep from demanding if Lancelot thought about him before he knelt in front of Tristain and offered his life in return for Guinevere’s. But she knows the answer. He sets the hoof down and straightens up, his eyes locking with hers.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt—“ she begins, ready to turn.

  
“You’re angry about what happened in the cell,” he say.

She resists the urge to tell him not to do that with her scent, but she knows it’s not something she’s hidden terribly well. He’s probably known since he ordered her to stay back.

“You were going to let her kill you,” she says, waiting for him to explain that he wasn’t.

“Yes,” he says. She stares at him. He returns the look with something cool and impassive on his face, though she can see the doubt creeping in. This feels as though she is dealing with another person. Another version of him, “if that was the price.”   
  
“How can you think that’s an acceptable price?” She questions, “Squirrel—“  
  
“I trusted you wouldn’t let him see,” he says.

Her mouth falls open.

Pym’s spent most of her life with he knowledge that her feeling are irrelevant beaten into her. By life, by others, carelessness is like a hammer and she’s metal that’s been folded and burned and tempered. She would have kept Squirrel from seeing it. They both know that. Like she’d keep Squirrel close and from running away. She would do all of it without a second thought. But she thinks of Gawain and Nimue sailing off, of Dof giving her the amulet that could have kept him alive, Nimue drowning herself. It all beats in her head as she stares at him and watches the cool warrior who kills without mercy further fall apart. She snaps her mouth shut and turns. Nothing good is going to come from having this conversation. He’s back safely and what he does with his life is up to him.

“You also would have looked away—“

“Do you really think that would have made anything better?” She cuts in, turning around, “you would still be gone,” he opens his mouth, “and don’t you dare say something about Squirrel. I’m not talking about him.”

She can’t imagine what losing Lancelot would do to him. Pym knows she can help him but it’s another thing he shouldn’t have to go through. Let alone because Lancelot thinks his life is not worth as much as Guinevere’s. Pym knows in her bones that is not the kind of world she is trying to build. No Raider is worth more than any other, she has never seen her act that way. And if she had any doubts, Guinevere demanding Arthur keep him alive erased them. But all of that means nothing if Lancelot still wants to get himself killed like that.

“I would be gone but you both would be safe,” he says.

“I don’t want to be safe at the expense of your life!” His face goes neutral and she knows that this is a new ground. She doesn’t know how to say what she wants while also impressing the importance of what he wants, “you’re a solider, I know that,” she says.

“If Guinevere dies this is for nothing.”

“That’s not true,” she says, “and she doesn’t think that either, you heard what she said to Arthur,” she clenches her fists and forces herself to release them. She can’t think about what other people want. She doesn’t want him to die or sacrifice himself, “I thought I was going to watch you die,” she says.

“It was a possibility.”

“How can you say that so calmly? Doesn’t your life mean anything to you?”

“Yes,” he says, “but it doesn’t mean more than everyone’s safety. I’ve cost many their lives, they sacrificed them to keep everyone safe. Mine is not worth more than that.”

“Stop saying that,” she says.

“My life isn’t,” he stresses.

“It is to me!”

It’s a horrible, awful thing to say and the moment the words leave her mouth it feels like she’s falling down a well. She claps her hand over her mouth and thinks, hopes, she’ll be sick. Any reason to explain what she just said. But she knows the reason. It’s the same reason that she’s spent all day worrying and looking as if he’ll magically appear. The same reason the relief that she felt on seeing him changed so quickly when he agreed to die. Squirrel is right, it’s different. It’s not just that they are all friends. Lancelot looks confused at her and she lowers her hand, keeping her lips tight since she doesn’t fully trust her voice or what she might say next. Lancelot doesn’t speak and she’s not sure why it is suddenly harder to read him.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “i am trying to respect what you want, I know that’s not something—“ she stops, not wanting to assume, “I can’t stand the thought you would sacrifice your life like you were going to for the antidote.”

“But you would be safe,” he stresses.

“I don’t want to be safe,” she retorts, “if I wanted that I would have gone to Avalon. I want to be here and alive. But I don’t want that if it means losing you.”

He’s quiet for a long moment and like in the beginning of their friendship, she expects him to walk away. But that isn’t him. He stands there silently, he gives her words weight. Even before she somehow fell into this role, he gave her words weight. More than anyone.

“I would choose your safety,” he says, “that’s more important,” something crosses his features and he steps forward, “I want you to be safe.”

“And I don’t want to be safe at the cost of your life.”

“We want different things then,” he says.

She swallows and wonders if the feeling of falling is ever going to stop. She doesn’t want to hear that they want different things. She doesn’t like that they are not on the same page. She’s gotten shockingly used to sharing the same wavelength with him. Though if she thinks about it, she should have seen it coming. She knew, even back in the beginning when he first showed up with Squirrel that it was Squirrel who got him out. That he would have laid there and died if Squirrel hadn’t dragged him to Goliath. She thinks of the martyrs his religion values and praises, she wonders how she could have expected that to be different.

“We do,” she says, “I don’t like it,” she adds.

“Nor do I,” he agrees.

She blows out a breath, at least they are on the same page about one thing.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you and Goliath,” she says, “I’ll let you finish. I need to check on Guinevere anyway.”

She turns before he can stop her and hurries back inside. She’s accepted this role and no matter if she wants to stay out there and talk circles with him, she needs to check on her patient, the non Druid one. When she comes into the room, Guinevere is alive and looking well and snoring rather loudly. Arthur is sitting in a chair by her bedside. The snoring doesn’t seem to both him. Pym almost lets him stay that way, but the knowledge he will need to ride out tomorrow makes her touch his shoulder, startling him awake. He looks from Guinevere to her before giving a sheepish smile.

“You should probably go to sleep in a bed,” she says.

“I’ve slept in worse places,” Arthur says, “besides, I’d like to make sure she’s alright. While I can,” something in his gaze makes her stop, “please.”

“At least pull another chair over so you don’t bend your neck,” she says.

“Alright,” Arthur agrees to the compromise more easily than any patient she’s tended to before.

Squirrel is already asleep on the floor when she goes into her own room and settles on the bed. But she doesn’t sleep.

She listens as the door opens and Lancelot comes inside.

After a moment’s hesitation, he settles on the bed next to her.

She doesn’t know why she feels the strangest feeling like this is something that won’t last. Maybe Merlin was right and maybe they are destined to be separated. He will somehow be in that golden city and she will not. It makes all of it terrifying and bittersweet. And the idea of their earlier conversation hanging over them settles like dread in her stomach. Things are easier when they don’t look at each other sometimes but she rolls over none the less. Only to find that instead of their usual sleeping positions he’s turned towards her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to him, “you’ve done so much to figure out what you want. It’s alright that we want different things.”

“We don’t,” he says, “we want the other alive.”

“Yes, but you’re in a much more dangerous position.”

“You have an injured Guinevere in the next room,” he points out. Pym resists the urge to smack him with the pillow, “we want the other alive,” he repeats.

“Yes but I want you here more than that,” she says.

“I cannot stay, I need to—“

“No, I know you need to go,” she says, “but—“ she makes herself stop. If he’s respected her choices she can do the same for his.

“I don’t want to die,” he says.

She looks for any sign he’s just telling her what she wants to hear but there’s none. He looks at her intently and she nods, trying to decide that she believes it. Does him not wanting to die make it any better if he prioritizes their safety over his own? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know the answer to any of these things and she hates them all. It feels so heavy. She closes her eyes and tries not to think of Dof. She didn’t commit their last days together to memory, she couldn’t have known. She knows that he will fade from her mind eventually. The thought that Lancelot will do the same makes her feel sick. So she tries to commit everything to memory.

Right down to the callouses on the hand that he settles over hers.

They ride out in the morning and she continues to try and memorize everything, until she realizes she’s going to drive herself mad doing it. She’s so focused on remembering everything that it all feels like some kind of water color painting that’s blurred. So instead she tries to focus on being in the moment, but that too feels wrong. All of it feels wrong. It’s not until they are standing there watching everyone mount that she shakes off whatever stupor has settled over her.

“Give me the amulet,” she says. Squirrel grabs it off his neck. Pym looks at him desperately, “no sneaking off. No adventures. You have to give me your word on your honor as a Knight that you will be my shadow no matter what happens. Do I have it?”

“Yes,” Squirrel says. Pym looks at him a moment longer, “I swear it.”

She nods and takes the amulet. Lancelot sees her coming and stops. She holds the amulet up. He looks from it to Squirrel and then back to her, she can practically see the calculations going on in his head.

“Wear it,” she says, in the most authoritative tone she can manage, “we’ll be safe as long as you are.”

He’s shockingly flexible as he ducks down. She doesn’t know why her mouth goes dry but she puts the cord easily around his neck. He straightens up and nods at her, tucking it beneath his armor. Their eyes hold for a moment longer and though she feels the weight of it, there’s none of the heat that seems to accompany them. They just look at each other. As though trying to commit the other to memory. Then he nods and turns Goliath with the others. When his eyes leave her it feels as though something deep in her chest splits, as though some part of her stays on Goliath with him.

And she can do nothing but watch them ride away.

It feels as though she blinks and hours have passed. She’s inside, but she can’t remember the past few hours for some reason. It stops mattering when she hears the sound of hooves. It’s earlier than last time, it’s too early. Instead of relief, it’s horror that fills her. Maybe some part of her knows even as she runs to the door, even as she waits to feel like a fool for being so worried. For making such a fuss. There are fewer riders who come back. She immediately sees the absence of Raiders she’s familiar with. But she clings to the hope that there’s an explanation to this. Even when she doesn’t see him.

Even when she sees Goliath.

“Pym.”

She whips around to see Arthur. He looks so much worse. He leans heavily on Gawain who looks equally spent. Pym tries to push herself into healer mode but she can’t. They all seem to know. She wants to apologize but she can’t seem to do that either. Arthur looks at her homelessness and then she sees what he’s holding.

It’s the swords.

She doesn’t know why her hands shake as she takes them. Why they are here at all.

“They were waiting for him,” Kaze says, “he threw them away when he realized he couldn’t fight them all, he surrendered,” a heavy look appears on her features, “they took him alive.”

Something goes off like a firework in her chest.

“He’s alive?”

Kaze nods.

“We went after them but they rode for the coast,” Arthur says, “taster than I’ve seen. They knew where they wanted to go,” he winces, “we couldn’t make it there in time.”

Her fingers grip the scabbards. Lancelot is alive, he has the amulet, but he’s been captured and he is on a ship. With the people who took him when he was a boy. He hates ships. She swallows against the sudden lump in her throat.

“Where—“

“We don’t know, perhaps Guinevere may have an idea—“

“The Vatican.”

They all turn to see Bedivere standing there. That old look is on his face, the one seems to wear when his past is brought up. When he looks at Lancelot. Bedivere walks forward, looking heavily at the swords and then back at them.

“They’ll take him to the Vatican to be tried as a traitor,” he says, “to make sure no-one tries something similar,” he looks down, “it won’t be a quick or easy death.”

Pym looks at the others and sees that they don’t have any intention of letting there be a death at all. Lancelot still has the amulet. He’s still alive. And if his death is to be a spectacle than all he has to do is hold on until they get there. Pym grips the blades and looks past them to Goliath. Squirrel has silently gone over to him. There’s something closed off on his face as he catches the horse’s reins and Pym can see him putting his emotions aside. She forces herself to do the same. She pushes herself to not panic. The only thing she can do in the moment is help Arthur.

“Let’s get you inside so I can fix what happened,” she says.

“I’ll watch the boy,” Kaze tells her.

Pym nods and looks at Bedivere.

“We’re going to get him back,” she says, “and he’s going to hold on until we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments, kudos, tumblr yelling. You can come scream at me about this over at veonomrps if you want me to yell with you. Please let me know what you think! Onwards!


	67. Tinder: Part 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning that this chapter obviously includes some not nice things (torture, drugging) because Lancelot is a prisoner.

He drifts.

Dimly he’s aware that they have him drugged. Not poisoned, but drugged. And though he seems to be aware of something going around, he’s mostly aware of the iron net they have suspended around him. His finger throbs from where he touched it and now he stays still. If he tries to burn his way out, the net may close around him and he‘ll die from the iron burns. He promised. He promised he was not going to forfeit his life so he drifts and tries to conserve his strength. Gather as much information as he can.

It’s hard to focus on the voices though.

He forgets that though Father is dead, his work is not. For all they are afraid to touch him, the Paladins know his body better than most. They know how to contain him, how to keep him suspended in his own thoughts like this. Even if his mind is strong, there are weaknesses that his body cannot overcome. So he focuses where he can and drifts where he cannot. He listens to them speak over one another, arguing amongst themselves. He doesn’t struggle when they force the concoctions down his throat and that saves him some minor injuries. Mostly though it doesn’t infuriate anyone. It doesn’t risk him getting stabbed or killed.

He needs to stay alive.

He promised he wouldn’t forfeit his life.

When he drifts past the point of recognition he focuses on the memory of everyone’s scent. He’s always had the mental catalogue of the ones he’s tracked, the ones he’s killed and the ones he’s let go. Now he has the scents of those he values, those who value him. It’s never a relationship he thought he would have with the Fey but he clings to them as he floats and drifts in his own mind. It feels like the first time he was on a boat. Or the first time he can remember. He thinks he should be afraid. He remembers Pym pinching the webbing of his fingers and behind his ears and making the nausea go away. Even if the fear lingered. His hands are too heavy though and the net prevents him from moving them.

So he focuses instead on the memory of her scent.

He catalogues everyones but hers has become one that immediately grounds him. If he focuses on that scent, he knows it will lead him where he needs to go. Of course at the moment there is nowhere to go, but it leads him to a calmer corner of his mind. He can linger there as he floats and try to direct his mind to the safer place. It’s strange, he used to sustain himself with reaching desperately for something that never spoke to him. Something he never felt. Now when he conjures up images of peace, of what safety looks like, they come readily. Easily. Not the kind of safety that Father gave him but the kind that accepts, the kind that reciprocates without asking or wanting much in return.

They didn’t want different things.

They wanted to be safe and together, he just prized safety more and she prized being together. Unsafe. He’s not foolish to think he could make the world safe, but safer—surely he could manage that. He is a blade after all, a tool that makes things better. But he is more than that. A blade doesn’t want, it doesn’t ache, it doesn’t dream of a warm weight on its shoulder and steady breathing as it learns to pray again. Those are the desires of a man. He’s not sure he’s ever had things like that. Not in the way that he understands them now.

“Thought there’d be more fire,” someone says above him, “why’s he cooperating?”

“Drugs and guilt,” comes the reply, “Carden said he would always come back.”

He didn’t come back, but he bites the words. The weaker they think he is, the better. But he reminds himself that he didn’t come back. He surrendered because it was his only option. The few Raiders who died made it clear there was no saving everyone by fighting. But he could stay alive by surrendering. He was too valuable to be killed quickly. The pageantry of it required he survive and he made an example of in the most gaudy way possible. He never cared about the pageantry of it. It was fitting that the first time he felt anything like God, he was in a small church with nothing bright or bold or ostentatious. But he didn’t come back.

He forged his own road.

Lancelot reminds himself of that. If the Road Father spoke of was forged in his blood and the breaking of his skin, this is forged in the evergreen of Pym’s scent and the flashes of Squirrel that constantly seem to appear even when they are not wanted. Maybe especially when they aren’t. He half expects the boy to pop out and he prays that he doesn’t. He needs to trust Pym to keep him safe. They took his armor, but he can feel the amulet. His trousers have always had odd pockets sewn into the lining and the fact that they do not want to touch him plays into that advantage. Squirrel will start fighting soon and he’ll need the amulet. Lancelot knows he needs to hold on to give it back to him. Pym believes in the amulet and he cannot be the reason she looses her faith in it.

So he has to hold on.

So he does.

He isn’t patient, he never has been. He can pursue but even tracking that takes too long starts to grate at him. Waiting like this is torturous and he knows the torture hasn’t even started. But even so he can admit that thinking he can escape is folly. Not with the iron that restrains his Fire, not with the drugged twilight they keep him suspended in. He has to hold on and wait. He has to trust. Trust that they will figure out how to get to him, that they can help enough so he can act. Until then he needs to stay as alive and as strong as possible.

He has a new appreciation for Tristain’s compliance. For her willingness to do what she can to keep her strength and wait. For what, he can’t say. To kill him maybe? Or maybe she still has the blind hope that they will come for her. They won’t. It is his fault for breaking the secret and exposing the Fire. He would do it again to keep them safe but the consequences aren’t one he anticipated. He never thought there would be another Ash Fey. One he was unaware of. He had always been told the Guard, the Priesthood, all of it was out of his reach because of being a Fey. Now he thinks it was probably just Father wanting to keep him close.

“Keep the net close, if he tries to move you know what to do.”

He tenses and then forces himself to go slack as they shift him upright. The iron next is close enough that he can feel the warmth it forces from his skin. It’s familiar, in a sick way. He remembers now that Brother Salt would favor iron with him, in the early days when they needed to break him into harming himself. He tries to ready himself for the pain but his muscles don’t respond as they should.

He’s not expecting the hands in his hair.

An odd bolt of panic spikes through him but he shoves it aside. Hair grows back. His will grow back. They shear a good measure of it off and then pull it taut from the crown. He feels the hair pull away and the air on his scalp.

“It’s gone,” one says.

“I have eyes,” the other snaps and he hears the fire being stoked, “no matter we’ll just say we freshened it up since he forgot.”

There’s a chuckle and a long sickening wait. Now is not his chance, he needs to stay pliant. Surprise will be crucial and if they think he’s truly unconscious, they won’t increase the dosage. He hears the brand being extracted and his face is shoved into the rough wool of the other Paladin’s robes. His hands clap around his ears and pull his hair back. The other mutters a blessing because somehow that matters and then presses the brand to his flesh.

It takes everything in him to remain slack.

It hurts.

He’s gotten used to not having constant pain but even if he had he’s sure this would hurt. His flesh bubbles and cooks as the cross burns into his new tonsure. The smell of his own flesh hangs in the air as the brand is pulled back and shoved into a bucked of cold water. He can’t help the hitch in his breathing but he forces himself to be as slack as possible as they shove him back and examine whether or not the branding was enough to awaken him.

“Keep his hair away from it,” one says, “they want him alive.”

Even that hurts but he ignores it as they jerk him about. It’s agony when they yank his shirt off, but it’s nothing compared to when they put a hairshirt back on him. His back is healed, the chafing is minor. What he fights is what they are doing. He feels the next layer and then the doublet. They even put his cloak on him and drag the hood up. It stings horribly against his freshly burnt scalp. He feels something being forced down his throat and ignores the loss of identity to focus on keeping whatever he can with his wits. But it’s very hard as the concoction flows through him.

When he becomes aware again he realizes why.

He’s in a narrow box. It’s unbearably hot on his face and hands, the only exposed skin he has. The box is iron. Did Father know? Was this to always be his fate? He planned for it, they are too well prepared and know how to contain him in ways he never would have expected. Only someone like Father could have planned this. The boxes and nets are too well fitted for him, this is Father’s doing. It takes everything to slit his eyes open. The net is on top of the box and through it he can see the blue sky. He’s rocking but not because of the boat, because they are moving him. He doesn’t close his eyes fast enough and Abbott Wicklow catches his eye.

“Hello, Brother,” he says, “you are here to be cleansed of your Sin.”

The arrow he hit the Abbott with has split his cheek. The wound is infected and Lancelot takes a savage joy in it. Abbott Wicklow cocks his head to the side, looking like some kind of ridiculous bird. He leans closer.

“Did you hear me?”

Lancelot knows he’s trying to stay alive. His identity has been stripped away and he has no idea how anyone will help him. If it’s even possible. They cannot take on the Church with the resources they have, let alone the Church, Cumber and Uther. He can hold on and hope, but if they are moving him it’s a hopeless thing. Cumber burned their ships. He looks up at Abbott Wicklow through the net that Father engineered to keep him contained. Father always expected him to be silent. He remembers arguing for Squirrel and being slapped. But Abbott Wicklow is waiting on a response. It takes an incredible effort to breathe in enough air to make his vocal chords work.

“I’ll pray,” he says, “for God to have mercy,” he has to force the last bit out, “on your soul.”

Anger colors Abbott Wicklow’s face and a moment later the net is ripped back.

Pain explodes across his face before something bitter is shoved down his throat. It mixes with his blood and it burns horribly for a moment.

And then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. I’m so happy you all are suffering with me. Please let me know your thoughts! Onwards!


	68. Tinder: Part 26

“What do you mean ‘he surrendered?! Why the hell did no-one stop him?!”

Pym winces as Guinevere chucks the nearest thing she can find against the wall. The ring of metal will have to do for an answer. Though she was half dead yesterday, she is healed enough today to stalk over to Bedivere, seize him by the cloak and drag him over to the map. For good measure she slams her knife in between his fingers.

“You tell us how to get him back or I take the other hand,” she spits at him, “and I start with your knuckles.”

“Guinevere.”

She whips around at the sound of Arthur’s weary voice. His ankle and shoulder are badly sprained, but the weariness is from a different kind of injury. One that Pym understands much better than she ever thought she would have to. The look Guinevere gives him could make a weaker man fall apart, but Arthur just looks at her. Like water flowing over a stone, eventually the stone splits. Guinevere pulls her knife free.

“How do we get him back?”

Bedivere looks over the map.

“This is the fastest way I know,” Bedivere says. “they cross here and move on horseback. There is probably one cart for the box—“

“What box?” Pym cuts in.

Bedivere lowers his head. A chill races down Pym’s spine. But she can hold it off, hold onto some kind of naive hope that this doesn’t mean what she thinks it must.

“There were contingencies,” he says, “if Lancelot were to leave. Father Carden observed him for years. He knows more about the Fey than any of us,” he looks at them, “the Paladins travel with iron nets and an iron box. If Lancelot were to disobey, he was to be put in the box and contained. They probably have him in it now.”

The air seems to leave the room.

Pym thinks of the deep burns on his wrists, of the burns she had before Nimue healed her. The idea of them traveling with a box like that, waiting for him to betray them when he believed so much, it makes her head spin. She thinks of him trapped in an iron box on a boat and it physically aches. Even though she has no doubt he’s fine and not giving them any quarter, it still makes her sick to think about. And the distance between them is only growing.

“I didn’t see any nets,” Arthur says.

“If he went willingly, they wouldn’t need them,” Bedivere says, glancing at her, “they won’t put him in the box bare skinned,” he says, “if he doesn’t struggle, they’ll only use it to keep him contained so he won’t fight.”

Pym knows he’s not going to struggle. She made a big deal about him coming back alive, about the value of his life. Maybe he doesn’t fully believe it yet, but she knows he’ll listen to her. He’s good at following orders. And she’s ordered him to stay alive. She should feel relieved but the guilt hits her instead. Could he have made it out if she had chosen her words differently? Is being taken and shut in an iron box worse than death? She has to put the guilt aside to focus on the problem at hand.

“How do we get him?” She asks.

“Do you have a ship?” Bedivere asks, “coin? An army?” No-one says anything and he hesitates, trying not to let his face fall, “what do you have in the way of resources?”

“Not enough to take them on,” Guinevere admits, “not directly anyway.”

Pym feels her heart start to pick up. They don’t have the resources. They don’t have the resources to take on one group, let alone as many are here. And especially not if they go to the Vatican. She’s heard horrible stories of where the Church is based. She’s never heard of a Fey making it out of there alive. Or of being there at all. And Lancelot is being taken there in an iron box while they all sit there helpless. No-one voices any other ideas and, feeling nauseous, she stands up.

“Sorry, I need some air,” she says.

She doesn’t.

But she can’t get to what she needs. He’s in an iron box being taken to a place they have no way of getting to. No-one tries to stop her as she makes her way outside. It’s a horrible feeling. She feels like she did when Nimue said she couldn’t heal Dof. That helpless, sickening feeling. It’s that drowning feeling she was terrified of, but now she truly feels alone. She didn’t realize how much safer it was before. She feels like a fool for not seeing it. She’s so accustom to seeing Lancelot slipping out of the corner of her eye or appearing near her that it feels wrong he isn’t doing just that. After all the time she wasted avoiding him, it’s clear that he was never as far as she thought. She was just so used to his presence it didn’t even register sometimes. Now that he’s gone she’s painfully aware of it.

They have to get him back.

He’s done so many insane, miraculous things for them. Surely they can do one thing for him. She doesn’t dare pray, Pym remembers praying for Nimue and for Dof, for her parents—all of those prayers were unanswered. So she stopped praying to the Hidden. But Lancelot learned to pray again. How, Pym has no idea, but the image of the peace on his face as he did was beautiful. Beautiful in the way that Nimue was when she spoke to the Hidden. But Nimue and the Hidden scared her in a way that watching Lancelot no longer did. Maybe because she understood his God in a way that the Hidden still seemed removed from. Even though the book helps, having someone there to explain it helps more.

She hears the quiet voices in the barn and knows that she should give them privacy but she can hear Squirrel sniffling. Immediately she feels like a fool, even if she knows that prioritizing the injured was the right thing to do. Squirrel is sniffling but he’s not alone. But it’s not Kaze whose with him, much to her surprise.

“He would be lucky to have you there, but he would also be afraid. As I was when I saw you,” Gawain says. Pym is surprised at how much his voice sounds like it did when he was alive, “he would want you safe.”

“But I could help!” Squirrel pleads, “I can save him even if I couldn’t save you.”

“You have saved him,” Gawain says, “in every way that matters. Whether or not he survives this.”

She peers around the corner to see Gawain is on a bent knee in front of Squirrel. He looks young, heartbreakingly young. And so much like the child he is. She watches as he rubs his eyes in a vain attempt to stop the tears from flowing. Even though Gawain is more vine than man, the green that makes him up now is almost golden in the lamp light. As though it’s trying to imitate skin. Maybe it is, maybe this is beyond things like life and death.

“But I’m supposed to protect him.”

“You have,” Gawain stresses, “he could not ask for a better Knight to have shown him the way.”

“You only Knighted me because you were about to die,” Squirrel chokes out, “we can say so.”

“Percival,” Gawain says and for once a Squirrel doesn’t buck at his name. Or maybe it’s because his hero worship of Gawain has always let the Green Knight get away with things others couldn’t, “I Knighted you early because I was going to die,” he agrees, “but if i had survived, one day I would have Knighted you all the same.”

Squirrel sniffles and looks at him. Gawain smiles in a soft way that Pym’s only seen a handful of times, mostly when they were all much younger.

“I was lucky to be your Knight for the short time I was,” Gawain says, “just as you are lucky to be his Knight for however long you have the honor.”

“He was mine,” Squirrel sobs out and Gawain moves forward, enveloping him in a hug.

It hurts to hear it acknowledged, though it’s something they are all aware of. Lancelot has taught him so much, saved him from so much. But in his own way Squirrel has done that for him. Maybe they are both able to save each other and teach each other. It’s not conventional but nothing is in their world anymore. Maybe it’s right that in some odd way they are both each other’s Knights. Pym slips away from the exchange with a heavy heart, wondering how on earth Lancelot will get the chance to hear those things. If he’s even alive to hear them right now.

He has to be.

She refuses to let her mind wander along that what if. She ordered him not to give up his life and if there is one thing she has faith in, it’s his ability to follow an order. No matter how much she’s tried to make him see he doesn’t always have to. She’s glad that it’s not something he’s accepted just yet. She can deal with the guilt of it later. Right now she’s just glad to cling to the hope that he’s following her orders and holding on until they can figure out how to save him. From people they have no chance of taking head on. It’s overwhelmingly hopeless.

So she doesn’t understand why there’s cheering.

They can’t possibly be celebrating him being taken, he’s one of them. Even with his mistakes. She swiped at her cheeks and follows the sound. It’s actually coming from inside the church. She follows it into the room where they’re keeping Tristain. There’s a crowd of Raiders who are making the noise. She’s become skilled at moving in between them to get where she needs to go. She worms her way forward until she gets to the front and nearly collides face first with Tristain.

The Fey gives her an absolutely wicked look before she spins around. Kaze easily steps over her strike and Tristain rolls from the return blow. Pym stares. There’s no weapons between them. She’s seen Kaze and Lancelot spar but what’s happening is a lot closer to the first fight Tristain and Lancelot had. Tristain is breathing hard but she’s more than holding her own. They’re both banged up but Kaze moves back and forth like someone who knows what they are fighting for. Tristain moves forward and though she lands a blow, Kaze drops her to the dirt, yanks her up and pulls her neck to the side.

“Yield or it’s mine!” Kaze snarls, “and you can explain to your God why you were arrogant enough to destroy his creations.”

“Fine, I yield!”

Kaze lets her go and to Pym’s amazement, when Tristain gets to her feet she doesn’t immediately attack Kaze. Or anyone. Pym looks around and sees the Raiders seem to have a healthy level of respect and fear for both of them. But it’s the look on Tristain’s face that makes her truly surprised. There’s no disgust or the way she looks at Lancelot. Just respect. It’s grudging but it’s there. Pym pushes the final bit forward and looks at both of them, though if she wants an explanation or to make sure they’re alright, she’s not sure. Probably both.

“We’re fine,” Kaze says before Pym can ask. Tristain nods, “she’s going to tell us what we need to do.”

“Just like that?” Pym demands.

The two of them exchange looks and it’s clear Pym is missing something.

“Show’s over,” Kaze says to the Raiders who go off grumbling, “the rules are different with Folk like ours,” she says motioning to Tristain, “we’re equals,” she says, motioning to the three of them.

“She’s the High Summoner,” Tristain corrects.

“What?” Pym says, trying to keep up.

Tristain and Kaze trade looks.

“Men don’t get to order women around in our Folk,” Kaze says, “we fought as equals. And because I won, she will help us until she challenges me again to take over.”

Pym stares at them and the impossibly simplistic solution. Though if she thinks about it, Tristain has been more forthcoming with her than with Lancelot. She’s exchanged things for a far lower price. Pym isn’t a fighter. The Sky Folk have a High Summoner but she’s not the ruler in the way that Guinevere is. And though Tristain seems disgusted with her Fey nature, she seems to hold an odd respect and fascination with it as well.

“Give me your wrist,” Kaze orders. Tristain looks disgusted but she does, letting herself be shackled again.

“This isn’t necessary,” she says.

“I’ll be the judge of that for now,” Kaze replies, leading her out of the cell and to where the others are trying to figure things out. They all look surprised as Kaze brings her over to the map, “how do we get him?”

“You can’t,” she says, “I’ve been with yo for months. You have nothing. They’ll take you and kill you without a second thought. I’d pray for his soul.”

Everyone is quiet and Pym feels sick until Arthur’s voice breaks.

“Yes!” They all turn to him, “you said it was going to be a big deal to execute him, well they’re going to want an audience. If we can’t face them head on, we can sneak in,” they all look at him blankly, “we’ll pretend to be pilgrims.”

The idea is insane but for the first time the despair in Pym’s heart jerks with something like hope. They could sneak in. Sneaking in has worked in the past. How they get Lancelot and how they get him out, that’s anyone’s guess. But they can figure that out. They have to get to him before they worry about anything else. Tristain scoffs and Kaze glares at her.

“They know what you look like,” Tristain points out.

“You can help tell us what they’re looking for,” Kaze says.

“Regardless, none of you know the first thing about Catholicism. Not enough to pose convincingly.”

“I do,” Pym says. They all turn to look at her, “I was trying to get Lancelot to talk when we first met. That seemed the easiest way,” she curls he fingers in her skirts, “I have his prayer beads too.”

“Well that’s one,” Tristain snaps.

“I know enough,” Arthur says, “we can say I’m praying for a miraculous healing.”

“I can help as well,” Bedivere says, “I want to help.”

“So then we just need a ship,” Arthur says with a tight smile.

“You leave the ship getting to us,” Guinevere says nodding at her Raiders.

It’s the beginnings of a plan. One that’s going to involve stealing and murder. But somehow both of those things are acceptable at the moment. If they mean getting him back. She has to fix the beads though. Both of them. She walks over to Guinevere who looks at her almost warily. Pym tries to show she’s not going to go to pieces.

“Do you have anything with red silk?” She asks.

“Why the hell would I have that?” Guinevere questions. Pym motions to the borrowed clothes she’s wearing, “ridiculous, come on,” Guinevere says, leading her over to her room. A moment later a coat of bright red is thrown in her direction, “will that do?”

“I might ruin the embroider—“

“If it keeps you from going to pieces and helps us get him back you can eat it for all I care,” she says, grabbing the jacket and putting it in Pym’s arms , “here and don’t say a word.”

She smacks the box on top and closes the door.

Pym takes the things back to the room and opens the box. Inside are bright needles tipped in gold, small hinged blades, things that are used to sew fine things. Pym spreads apart the jacket and uses her magic to pull apart the long embroidery thread, winding it together to make the kind of chord she needs. She spreads out the beads and carefully sets to work on stringing them back together.

As she does she thinks about all the times Lancelot must have held them and prayed. Or tried to reach God. How when he seemed able to, it was without the beads but with his own self worth and comfort. She knows the beads are warm from her own pocket, but she wants desperately to pretend they are warm from his hands. Which is such a foolish foolish thing to want. She knows better. Surely she must know better. The needle pricks her finger and she looks down and realizes that she’s dripped tears and stained blood on them. Hastily she tries to wipe them off but it’s hopeless.

“Can I help?” She hears Bedivere’s voice inquire and she shakes her head.

“No, I—“ she refuses to fall apart, “I do more work with my magic, but it seemed disrespectful to do it with these,” she confesses, looking up at him, “I think I’ve ruined it.”

“You haven’t ruined anything,” he says, “blood and tears are sacred things,” he closes her fingers around them, “you show a lot of respect to it.”

“It’s important,” she says. Bedivere nods, “I told him to stay alive,” she says, “I think he surrendered because of me instead of fighting.”

“If he did, you saved his life,” Bedivere tells her. She nods miserably and shakes her head, wiping under her eyes and turning back to the beads. Bedivere’s presence isn’t entirely unwelcome as she finishes the last knot and clips the chord. She turns to his beads, “before you do that,” he says, “may I show you how we use these?”

Pym realizes that they will need to know if they are going to sneak in and nods, wiping uselessly under her eyes. Bedivere smiles and looks at her.

The beads aren’t hers but he waits until she nods to pick them up and start to show her how they are used to pray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos/comments/tumblr messages. They mean so much. I promise I am not going to drag this very painful portion of separation out and I am suffering along with all of you. Onwards!


	69. Tinder: Part 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Lancelot’s situation so warnings for torture: burning, self harm, whipping, emotional pain, past abuse.
> 
> If you don't want to read this chapter it's okay! You can find an abbreviated summary of what you need to know [HERE](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/post/632188166360711168/ok-so-i-forgot-people-dont-have-tumblrs-which-was)

“Good morning.”

Lancelot realizes he’s upright.

He’s on a chair and his head is tucked to his chin. His neck is sore, to the point where he can’t just push the pain away. He’s been re-branded, he remembers. Immediately when he focuses he can feel the amulet. If nothing else it gives him something to focus on as he raises his head. Abbott Wicklow is standing in front of him. Being seated gives him some advantage in height and he seems to be enjoying it far too much.

“Do you know where we are?” He asks. Lancelot looks at him blankly, “take a deep breath. Do you smell that?”

He does and wishes it was not because he was told. He smells the ocean first, but he would know they were on the coast even without the smell. He can hear the waves crashing against the rocks. Violently. And close. He’s surprised at how quickly the thoughts come. His mouth is dry and his head is throbbing, but he realizes that he’s not as fogged as he was. They haven’t drugged him like before. Though he momentarily thinks of running, he knows he doesn’t stand a chance with this many around him and Abbott Wicklow’s smug look.

“I thought your nose was legendary, the thing that kept you alive all these years. Smell again.”

He does.

But it’s mostly the ocean again. Abbott Wicklow looks at him for a moment longer and then makes a sound of disgust. He signals and arms grip his, hauling him to his feet. The ground is wildly uneven and though the drugs aren’t in his system to the same degree, his legs ache viciously from not moving for however long they’ve hand him. He manages to keep the twist of his ankle from being truly crippling, but the joint strikes a stone and it sends pain lacing up his leg. Abbott Wicklow leaves first and they follow him.

Outside the smell is even sharper and the air smacks across his face. His knees buckle and they haul him up but he knows where they are. He’s known from the moment he breathed in the air, though his mind wouldn’t let him think it. It couldn’t. Or maybe it didn’t want to acknowledge anything. It’s clearer, there’s no smoke or steam or anything that obscures his vision. And the stones aren’t black like he remembers, except where the water laps at them.

They’re on the beach from his memories.

They’re on the island.

Abbott Wicklow looks at him smugly as he struggles to get his feet under him. He half thought he dreamed the place up. But here it is, spread before him. The smooth stoned beach, the path that leads up to where the village used to be. He can see the ruins of it. Most of it is gone thanks to the elements and what the Paladins did. But he can pick out the stones. He’s dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the things that linger in his system. Abbott Wicklow looks at him smugly.

“Father Carden wrote about this place,” he says, “he theorized that your sense of smell would make you remember the things you had blocked out. He would be glad to know he was right, if your kind hadn’t murdered him.”

Panic hits him blindly.

He has to get off this island.

The longer he stands there the more he can smell the dead Ash Folk that are mixed with the dirt. They are everywhere. He can smell his kin, others that are familiar—if he thinks about it he can smell the blood that lingers in the dirt on the path. The blood that hasn’t been washed away as it was beaten into the ground by the Paladins or caught in the ash of the others. He feels like a child suddenly, realizing desperately that he doesn’t want to die. Not for a secret. No matter how his uncle tells him it will be over quickly.

No matter how steady his father’s hand is on his shoulder.

It breaks free when he runs, shoving them out of the way. He can hear them calling for him but he’s running across the stones and the dirt, just trying to put as much distance as he can between them. He didn’t stop running until he saw Father. And though he was an enemy, Father still grabbed him. Still saved him from the men who were trying to kill him. He remembers the look in their eyes as they saw him with the Paladins. How utterly defeated they seemed. Even as they were lead away to their deaths and he to his new life.

Maybe they all died that day.

No, he corrects himself, he survived. He survived all of it. Like he is going to survive whatever is coming next. They are on this island to torture him, but if they are on this island that is buying everyone else more time. He has to stay in the present and not get lost in the ghosts of what used to be. Everyone on this island is dead or they are sulking in a church plotting to try and kill him. There is nothing here from the past that can hurt him. He struggles to his feet but they force him back to his knees.

“You can’t run,” Abbott Wicklow says. Lancelot stays silent, “maybe you are like a dog,” he continues, “can I command you to speak?” He smirks and leans closer, “do you know what I do to dogs who disobey?”

With how dry his mouth is, Lancelot doesn’t know where he gets the spit from.

Abbott Wicklow reels backwards and Lancelot understands why Squirrel does it. It’s worth it when they slam the air from his lungs and shove his face into the stones. He can hear Abbott Wicklow cursing. It’s a stupid thing to do, but the satisfaction of it makes it worthwhile. They haul him up from the stones and barely let him get his feet underneath himself before they are dragging him towards the village. He needs to stay alive but the more he can slow them down, the better chance the others will have.

It’s still terrifying to go into the village.

He doesn’t regret annoying him, Abbott Wicklow isn’t stupid enough to disobey whoever has given the order to take him wherever they are taking him. But he isn’t smart enough to recognize Lancelot is slowing him down. He focused on that. No matter what he had become, he has spent most of life following orders. Ignoring everything else. Every doubt, every misgiving, every distraction. Being surrounded by Paladins who hate him is nothing new. He can ignore that as well. And he has orders, he is to stay alive and he is to return. Even more importantly, he has to give the amulet back. He can focus on that and only let the most important things in.

As he walks through the village he’s struck by how things make more sense as he half remembers things. It’s like a sketching being filled in with color. The wide circles with their deep pits used to hold Fire. More Fire than the shallow circles in the cracks of the rubble. Their houses were round. The pit was always the center and everything else was wedged from there. The pits outside were for the fueled Fire, the pits inside were for the Fire that his mother would make to start the new day. He cannot see her face or remember anything else, but he remembers her smiling when she would see he was awake and winking as she touched her fingers to the center pit.

He uses the weight of the amulet to ground himself in the present. To recognize these are memories. His fingers ache to grab it but he refuses to give into the urge. They pull him to one of the houses and kick him through, once again he finds himself with his face shoved into the stone. There’s a chip in it that flickers brightly even in the dim light, it’s got glass embed in it. He isn’t sure how he knows that, but he knows it. The same way he knows his mother used to wink and smile at him. His stomach tightens and he forces his mind to the amulet pressing into his thigh. To the slight, petty satisfaction that he gets from the anger on Wicklow’s face.

“Do you remember that they tried to kill you?” Abbott Wicklow says.

Lancelot forces himself to be silent.

“Not where they found the other bodies, they tried to drag you in. Father Carden saved your life. And you betray him by going back to the very people who would see you dead.”

He feels sick. He wants to say that they are lying, but he remembers the feel of hands on his. Screams of his name. He remembers that’s how Father found it out. They had screamed for him as they burned. Not with Fey Fire but with regular fire. They burned slowly and horribly. Logically he knows that there is nothing but the finest ash left of them after the decades. That it’s been swept away. But emotionally something tears viciously in him at the thought that the grime on his cheek is the bones of a family member. He isn’t sure if he feels sorrow, anger or some combination of the two. Or maybe it’s just every emotion. He battles for control of himself as they haul him up. The dirt on his cheek feels like it might drive him mad.

“Are you speechless again, Lancelot?” He asks.

It’s hardest to hear his name on Abbott Wicklows lips. He turns his face into the hood as he has countless times before, but they allow him no such luxury. They rip it back and someone yanks his head up by the scalp. He’s good at staying silent but the new burn stings viciously. Abbott Wicklow looks him in the eye and seems almost satisfied as Lancelot feels his water as his scalp stings.

“I’m sure you’ve figured out by now we need to keep you alive,” he says and Lancelot feels the chains on his hands being undone. He could kill them all right now, without another thought, “but if you disobey we are allowed to kill you. I’m sure your traitorous friends are mounting some kind of rescue effort. It will fail, the question is if you remain alive long enough to see it,” he glances at Lancelot’s hands, “do you want to burn me?”

Lancelot bites into his cheek. Abbott Wicklow smirks and rises up to his full, meager height.

“Well I want something of you as well.”

The flog lands between them like a challenge.

“I want you to repent.”

Lancelot stares at the flog. He’s in his family’s old home, he’s become everything that killed them. His mind feels as though it blanks out at the suggestion. He’s come farther than that. He’s learned to lessen the itch and the ache for splitting his own skin. He knows that it’s a twisted desire, that God’s love is not in it. The suffering doesn’t cleanse like he’s been told. Helping others, protecting them, kindness—that is what cleanses you. Not this.

“No,” he says.

“Alright,” Abbott Wicklow replies and nods. The iron net is dropped on his hands and head is yanked back as the blade is dug into his throat. The pain is blinding. A moment later he’s dropped back down, his hands banging painfully against the stones, “now?”

“No.”

This time when they drop him, his nearly blacks out. Spots dance in front of his eyes. Abbott Wicklow crouches in front of him and looks at his hands, making a sound that could be mistaken for concern. The same sound that Father Carden used to make. He preferred Brother Salt saying he shouldn’t die so they could continue to cook together, at least there was honesty in that.

“One more time and you may not be able to hold the flog,” Abbott Wicklow says, “the last thing your friends will see before they die is your flayed body.”

He thinks of Squirrel who saw Gawain in that state. That cannot happen. He thinks of Pym who cannot see it either. He should have asked one of them to make sure they couldn’t see. But he forgot and he knows that they will try to save him. It may not ruin the others the same way but Guinevere was clear to Arthur that he wasn’t to die. And Lancelot cannot put him through not being able to save another person. They will come for him. He knows that.

That’s what family does.

They are his family. Not the church, not the people who died here. Pym and Squirrel are his family. And he needs to return to them, as whole as he can manage. He shoves himself up as best he can and blinks the tears and sweat from his eyes. Abbott Wicklow looks at him and Lancelot is aware of the Paladins around him. Waiting. Wanting. They fight for nothing but lies. He’ll have no part in it. He has to unclench his jaw as he looks up at Abbott Wicklow.

“Forgive me,” he says.

“Repent, my son,” Abbott Wicklow tells him and for the first time Lancelot sees the lie for what it is.

Every motion hurts as he undoes his cloak and the layers they have dressed him in. He’s undone them before but never having been burned with iron like this. He can’t heal the skin if the scars take and the iron scars take much faster. He doesn’t think they’re deep enough to have truly damaged the muscles and tendons but he doesn’t know. It’s smart they have him on the stone so he can’t heal. His hands tremble as he forces them around the flog. The skin cracks around the burns. Abbott Wicklow blesses him.

Lancelot brings the whip over his shoulder.

His skin breaks.

Abbott Wicklow smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments, kudos, tumblr messages. I know this is a hard part but the Church is our enemy at the moment and they also feel betrayed. Please let me know your thoughts and I’ll see you in the next chapter!


	70. Tinder: Part 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you skipped last chapter or I posted this after you read it, you can find an abbreviated summary of what you need to know [HERE](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/post/632188166360711168/ok-so-i-forgot-people-dont-have-tumblrs-which-was). I'm doing this because I fully respect some people want to read the story and not read Lancelot being hurt. But that should give you a summary of what you need to know going forward.

Pym stares at the boat.

This is going to be fine.

They are going to get Lancelot and get back here and rejoin the others. And then they will figure everything else out. She doesn’t have the luxury of staring at the boat for very long, they have to move quickly. Off come the crew and on they go. She manages one glance over her shoulder at those who are staying behind. It’s too dangerous for Guinevere, Merlin says he is needed here, Gawain says he cannot leave the shores and the rest are too little or they aren’t fighters. Some of the Raiders are going and posing as the crew. But the rest are with Guinevere. They will return, she hopes, to a stronger army. But either way they will return and take it from there.

“What are you staring at?” Guinevere questions.

“Nothing,” Pym says quickly.

“You can’t be distracted,” Guinevere says. Pym opens her mouth, “you don’t have it.”

Pym instantly knows what she’s talking about and shakes her head. Lancelot might have the amulet, or they may have taken it from him. Guinevere raises her eyebrows and Pym realizes it may not be the thing she thought. Though she knows these last few months the amulet isn’t what’s kept her safe. It’s been around Squirrel’s neck more than anyone’s, but that’s not the thing either. Lancelot’s been the one to keep them safe. And he isn’t there.

“So don’t be distracted,” Guinevere says sharply, “I didn’t go through the trouble of keeping you alive to have you die on me rescuing some Fey who tried to kill us.”

“You know that’s—“ Pym starts. Guinevere glares, “he hasn’t done that in a long time.”

“But he might,” Guinevere says, “he’s been torn apart before,” Pym presses her lips together, “but he can heal. So you’ve got enough dirt on that ship to bury a man. Take some with you and if the worst happens there should be enough to keep him alive.”

Pym still feels ill but nods.   
  
“And keep the knife on you for Gods sakes,” Guinevere says.

“I will.”

“Go,” Guinevere says with a jerk of her head, “and let’s hope you’re better at following orders than he is.”

Pym lets her have that last jab and pulls her hood up, hurrying onto the ship. She’s not considering the advice. She has to believe that, as in the other times she’s seen Lancelot out of his mind, her scent will get through to him. The only thing she has to think about the knife slicing is her own hand. And she just has to hope it doesn’t come to that. The Raiders work like a well oiled machine and it’s a wonder they aren’t caught immediately. But they aren’t and soon the ship is leaving the shore behind. Pym is relieved this isn’t the first time that she’s left these shores, but it’s still strange to watch them slip away.

“Are you alright?”

She looks over at Arthur. He’s still banged up but holding his own. There’s nothing to do but keep off the ankle for as long as he possibly can. The only horse they have to truly worry about disguising is Goliath, but they can do that well enough when they get there. The dirt should help. Pym realizes that she’s quiet and lost in thought when Arthur smiles miserably and turns to look out at the rapidly disappearing land.

“Sorry,” she says quickly.

“It was a foolish question,” he says, looking out at the horizon.

“Do you miss her already?” Pym asks. Arthur looks over at her, “I do, even though I know it’s safer for her over there.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Arthur advises.  
  
“I don’t have a death wish,” Pym says with a shudder. Arthur nods, “so do you miss her?”

“Yes, alright,” Arthur says and she watches the blush rise on his cheeks, “which is madness since we’ve been apart all of five minutes.”

  
Pym almost smiles. It’s an odd love story to see played out. Guinevere hardly seems the type, but if anyone could disarm her with his charm it’s Arthur. Though she knows Guinevere’s pride won’t let her admit the things she wishes. Arthur knows it as well. She wonders if the two are destined to endlessly flounder about each other. She wonders why the idea fills her with such sinking dread.

“She thinks you’re still in love with Nimue,” Pym says.

  
Arthur stiffens and somehow looks stronger and more defeated than she’s ever seen him.

“A part of me is,” he says, “it always will be.”

Pym wonders if he’s lying to make her feel better. It’s an odd thing they’ve done. They both loved Nimue, in their own ways, and they both watched her die. But she swore her loyalty to Guinevere when Nimue was in front of her. Even Arthur was more loyal to the Fey Queen than she was, and he isn’t even a Fey. It’s a tangled mess and she knows she has enough guilt of her own to deal with, without the complication of being in love with two people at the same time. Nimue is lost to them, that much is very clear. Even if she chose to do the responsible thing and to face her destiny head on. It feels selfish to be jealous of it, to feel bitter about someone doing something so brave and so heroic.

“It’s alright if you love Guinevere,” she says, “I think Nimue would want us to choose our lives.”

“Guinevere doesn’t understand,” Arthur says finally. Pym looks at him curiously, “she doesn’t do things in half measures.”

Pym knows that about her. Guinevere is uncompromising. It makes her a good leader in most situations. She also imagines things are a bit more complicated than just Arthur still loving a ghost. She can see they compliment each other, they balance each other. But if that’s enough to overcome their differences, she can’t say. And Nimue is not the only one that Arthur is mourning. Though if Nimue is in some unreachable grey area, Morgana is in an even more complicated one. One that Pym doesn’t fully understand.

“We have other things we need to focus on,” Arthur says.

“That sounds like an excuse,” Pym admits, “you shouldn’t let that stop you from figuring it out with her.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Arthur says in a way that might be cruel if not for the softness on his face.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Pym says, not understanding why her body seems to act on its own accord and her face grows hot.

“Do you really not see it?” Arthur asks, “you’re blushing.”

“So are you!”

  
Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. Pym can’t quite help the laugh that escapes her but the panic she feels hasn’t lessened. Which is ridiculous because this entire conversation is insane. Or the turn that it’s taken is. Arthur and Guinevere are well matched and both are capable of knowing what they want, even if they can’t quite get on the same page about everything. It hasn’t stopped their feelings from growing. They’ve learned to bring out the best in each other and to support each other through the worst. It’s just that final part they have to get over. Pym has to believe that they will. Arthur staring longingly back at the shore and missing Guinevere after a few minutes out of her company certainly gives her hope for them.

What he’s suggesting though, it’s completely preposterous.

Lancelot barely knows how to want things without being afraid of the pain. She still remembers the first night when he realized that there was a woman in the tent. How red faced and embarrassed he got, even though he was fresh off a lifetime of murdering Fey. When she bled on her monthly cycle the first time he thought she was injured. If he ever had sex it was a very long time ago and not under romantic circumstances. He is just understanding love out of the warped way that Father Carden corrupted him with. She doesn’t think that he’s even aware of the romantic kind except as a sin.

And even if he was, the idea is preposterous.

They are friends, she can say that with confidence. But what on earth would anything else entail? After a lifetime of being told that women are a certain thing, fit a certain role—nothing he’s told her of his faith speaks of room for her and her beliefs. She’s fought so hard to keep the shreds of what she believes. The things she feels are important, things she wants to pass on. All Fey are brothers, people should be treated a certain way, things that matter. Giving those up makes her feel sick. Even more sick than the conversation is making her feel already. She wants to dismiss it as the boat or the stress, but it squirms inside her like a living thing.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Arthur says, “I can’t imagine how complicated it must be given your histories.”

She hadn’t even thought of that.

Again.

“It’s not that,” she says, “that’s—something I had to accept to be able to look at him at all,” she confesses, “he’s done horrible things, no matter what was done to him. But it’s not as simple as any of that. I know that now.”

“Do you want to talk about what it is?” Arthur asks, “we’ve got a whole boat ride.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she says, not sure if she’s saying the words for him or for herself, “I just want him away from them. The rest is irrelevant.”

Arthur nods. He opens his mouth and then closes it before looking at her. She’s seen that Arthur is more thoughtful in his words than she initially would have thought back in that market place.

“He’s going to be alright,” he says. She thinks about Guinevere’s warning and says nothing, looking back at the water, “I saw the look on his face. I saw it before. He made a choice that saved as many of us as possible. He didn’t give up.”

“I know that,” she says quietly.

“No, I mean even as they were leading him away. He’s stubborn.”

Pym nods, she knows he is. A less stubborn man would not have done the things he has, both the good and the bad. The fact that he’s had any humanity to save buried under everything is a true miracle. One she’s not sure she’ll ever understand. If he clings to that, to everything that he’s learned, maybe what Guinevere warned her about won’t come to pass. Pym desperately wants it to not come to pass. Arthur was there when he was taken, they’ve fought together and they’ve built a friendship. She has to trust what he’s saying. Even if it doesn’t make her feel particularly better. Not because she doesn’t believe him or doesn’t have trust in Lancelot, she just wishes that she had been there. No matter how irrational the wish may be.

“We’ll deal with him however he comes back,” she says, “as long as we get him back.”

“Absolutely,” Arthur agrees, “no-one is going to give up on him.”

Pym nods and tries not to think of the dirt that Guinevere has supplied them with. She feels eyes on her suddenly and turns to see Tristain standing there. Bringing her along was a risk. But the advantages of having her when she’s able to track Lancelot are undeniable.

“We need to recalculate our route,” she says.

“Why?” Pym asks.

“I miscalculated,” Tristain says simply. Arthur looks at her, “I overheard what you said. If they haven’t broken him physically they’ll try another way. I don’t think they’re heading directly to the Vatican.”

“I’m getting Bedivere,” Arthur says.

Pym nods. Tristain is immediately silent.

“What other way?” Pym questions.

“They’ll take him to Ouessant,” she says. Pym looks at her blankly, “it’s where we came from.”

Pym’s stomach rolls. She thinks of the times that Lancelot has remembered where he came from. The screaming, the panic, she half thinks the place must be hell itself. But it’s not. It’s a real place. The horror must show on her face. Tristain takes a deep breath in that could be mistaken for trying to find peace and then points with both of her hands. Pym looks over as Arthur and Bedivere join them.

“Was taking him to the island a part of the plan?” Pym questions.

“I don’t know,” Bedivere says, “but it’s not impossible,” he looks around but they only see the wind, “if they’ve taken him there, we could cut them off before they get back to the mainland.”

“It could be an ambush,” Pym points out. They all look at her. She looks at Tristain, “you still want him dead.”

“Yes,” Tristain says without any remorse, “but I wouldn’t lead a Priest into an ambush, Father,” she adds quickly to Bedivere.

  
Bedivere nods and looks at them.

“I think this is our best chance,” he says, “or we are looking at a long and precarious journey. We have some element of surprise,” he looks at them, “assuming they’ll be there for long enough that we can catch them.”

“What if they aren’t?” Pym asks.

“Then we’ve lost any ground we’ve gained,” Bedivere says.

It’s a horrible, horrible choice and Pym realizes they are all looking at her. She wants to tell them that Arthur is in charge, anyone is in charge. It’s certainly not her. She thinks about Lancelot coming after her. How he did it alone, pursuing her without a second thought. This is so different. There’s no trail for her to follow. She doesn’t have the gifts he does. She doesn’t know if they are still on the island, if they’ve left. What the right answer is. For a moment she half wants to ask Squirrel.

But she refuses, this is her decision. Like Lancelot made the decision to come after her.

“If he’s affected by the island, will they keep him there?”

“They want to break him to show what betraying the faith does,” Tristain says, “if the island works they may keep him there longer than is wise. It’ll send less of a message if he’s defiant.”

Pym thinks of what they did to break him in the first place. All the scars, the way he aches for harming himself in the name of God. If there’s a chance they can get to him before he spends so long on the road, with the Paladins doing things she doesn’t want to imagine, the better this will be. It’s a slim chance but it’s a chance none the less.

“We need to try,” she says.

“We’ll change course,” Arthur says.

“Tell me which ropes need adjusting,” Pym tells the nearest Raider.

As Arthur works to bring the boat about, she grips the ropes. For a moment everything is silent. She doesn’t even know if she can connect to the Hidden as feebly as she usually can. She’s never tried when she was not back on land. For a moment it’s all silent. She focuses harder, like she’s trying to push herself to the empty spaces where the voice should be. She knows better. She has to force back her desperation. Instead she tries to focus on the weight of the beads in her pocket and the memories she tried to hold onto in that last morning. Most of which blend together. But if she closes her eyes she can put herself back in the bed and she can remember the feel of his hand on hers. It’s not about individual strength, she knows that now.

She feels the Fingers come up on her skin as the knots undo and re-arrange how she wants them to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos/comments/reviews/tumblr messages. They are so wonderfully appreciated. Let me know your thoughts! Onwards!


	71. Tinder: Part 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Lancelot getting banged up and hurt by the Paladins (burning, whipping, stabbing). None of it is self inflicted.

Pym’s here.

He doesn’t know how he catches her scent over that of his own blood and the dead Ash Folk, but the moment it hits him he knows. They’re close. The wind carries it to him. If it was any weaker, if the walls were any higher, if any small thing was different, it wouldn’t. But he can smell the sharp way her scent is after she uses her knot magic. It’s stronger than that, if possible. As if she’s been leant some kind of strength. Or perhaps he’s just losing his grip on reality. He’s light headed from the blood loss. His hands were only able to hold the whip for so long. Then one of the others was permitted to help him repent.

They enjoyed it.

He spits onto the stones as they wait for him to push himself back up. It’s begun to storm and everything is wet with some combination of rain and his bodily fluids. If the rain continues, if it gets worse, he knows they will be stuck on the island. But it risks the ship. That’s the only way they have gotten here. It’s the only way onto the island. He doesn’t know if Bedivere is with them or if he’s been or if they are foolish enough to bring Tristain. But there is a narrow window until the storm traps them all here where they could safely navigate. Possibly. HIs fingers curl into whatever fists they can manage and he shoves himself back up.

This time when the whip cracks against his back, he sends up a burst of Fire.

The net hits the broken skin of his back and scalp. The pain is blinding. As he knew it would be. He lets out the broken sound he’s been fighting for days. Not because he wants to or needs to, but because it immediately makes the rest of them relax. It covers for the Fire. There’s no plan to them, he’s just some pathetic Fey whose lost control of his abilities. He knows exactly how they are thinking, even before he catches sight of Abbott Wicklow’s smug face as he grips his chin and presses the iron net to more flesh.

“You’ve gone soft,” Abbott Wicklow says, sounding oddly disappointed.

He drops his hand and motions to the men behind him. The net is blissfully removed. For a stupid moment, Lancelot feels as though he can breathe. Until he realizes the flog is being put away. That they are getting ready to leave. When he breathes in, he smells Pym’s scent even stronger now. The winds are unnaturally on their side. Or they have some Fey with them who can make up the difference. But he knows that his signal has been seen. A moment later he smells Squirrel’s and Kaze’s scents as well as the Fey cut themselves. They’re here for him. As he knew they would be. He remembers all of Father Carden’s words and promises as he struggles to his knees.

“Make me strong, Father,” he says.

He sees Abbott Wicklow hesitate and look him up and down. How he can see anything on his freshly burned face, Lancelot doesn’t know. But after a moment, Abbott Wicklow’s practicality wins out over his vanity.

“There is no strength in you, my son,” he says, “but I shall pray for God to have mercy on your soul.”

They shove his clothing back on him and his vision whites out at points. The self flagellation has turned into a whipping and the wounds are deep. Still he doesn’t know how he used to put the hairshirt on. How he thought this was equated with any kind of love. All of the layers feel impossibly heavy, or perhaps that’s just the blood loss. The rough fabric of the hood chafes at his scalp. He refuses to scream though, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop. If he has another turn with the iron net in him. He barely manages to get to his feet, fortunately the Paladins are there to assist him and to keep him upright. A Trinity Guard comes to Abbott Wicklow and tells him something. Lancelot fights the sick feeling in his stomach as Abbott Wicklow listens and his face colors. The Guard steps forward and with a quick blow, the world goes black.

When he opens his eyes, his head bangs against the box as they drop him in. How much time has passed, he cannot say. It’s hard to focus his eyes. There’s a conversation happening above him, one that’s frantic and hushed but it doesn’t register in the way that it should. Words like stuck and the tides swim above his head. Still out of focus. He shoves aside the urge to panic and focuses instead on the even stronger scents. He has to hold on. He focuses on Pym’s most of all. He’s anchored himself with it before and he does that now. He forces himself to listen.

“The tide’s against us and the storm’s getting worse. This isn’t natural,” the muffled voice of the Trinity Guard says.

“Well what would you suggest?” Abbott Wicklow spits, “we’re to bring him to the Pope. He’s to be made an example of!”

“He is to be executed as a heretic,” comes the correction, “we do it now.

“But—“

“We have orders.”

“You can’t burn him in this!”

They haul him out of the box and his head aches horribly. His knees buckle and they let him drop to the ground. The deck of the ship is wet. The rain is hard and the wind is worse. How he can still smell Pym’s scent is beyond him. But even more unnatural is the fog and the darkness. Maybe some of it is natural, he’s not sure. But the darkness isn’t. He’s sure of that, though his mind cannot fathom where it’s been before. The Trinity Guard in front of him is praying. They cannot start a fire in this, that much is clear. Though burning him on the ship also seems ludicrous. These are men who serve the Pope, they are not martyrs. 

The Trinity Guard anoints him with oil.

The others are so close.

They haul him up and hold his arms. He doesn’t know if he’s able to run, but he knows that if he stays here they will figure out a way to kill him. The plan has changed. That much is clear. The Guard in front of him produces a sharp blade and even in his distorted vision, Lancelot can see that it’s iron. He hopes that they are either very close or they are not going to find his body.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a black cloaked figure.

She’s just standing there.

The rain stops abruptly. The storm is not natural. That much is very clear. It turns off like a candle has been blown out and everyone is aware of the new figure who has appeared quite silently. Abbott Wicklow looks at her in surprise. She just stays there as everyone stares. Including him.

“Who are you?” Abbott Wicklow gets out.

“I’m the Lady of Avalon,” she says, “I’m here to watch you die.”

That’s all the opening he needs to focus on his hands. They haven’t thought to chain him or perhaps there’s no time. He’s never killed someone just with the Fire. They glow a sickly green as it pushes into their chests and lights them from the inside. He rips his hands back and the fire is still going as they fall to the deck. There wasn’t anything living on the wood before, but Morgana’s wind somehow stokes and spreads the Flame. It catches and spreads across everything. Across it, he sees Morgana looking at him. Even as Abbott Wicklow falls to the flames.

A moment later, the iron blade is buried deep in his gut.

The Trinity Guard who does it is half burned and burns the rest of the way. But it’s no matter. Lancelot looks stupidly down at the blade and when he looks up, Morgana is in front of him. He’s going to die. He can generate the Fire, but healing requires the Green. The great ship begins to crack under the heat. It’s enough. He bends down and touches the deck, cutting off the fire. As he straightens up, he tastes copper in the back of his throat. The knife is deep and it’s iron. He knew his death would not be kind but it’s not a way that he expected to perish.

“I’m sorry,” he confesses to Morgana, “for what we did to you.”

“As am I,” she replies, “take a deep breath,” he takes as deep a breath as he’s able to, “hold your nose,” she says, “and try not to panic.”

She seizes the front of his cloak and for a moment it feels like they’re flying.

Then the water closes over their heads.

She was right to tell him not to panic. The salt is agony on every fresh wound. The impact of the cold makes it difficult to hold onto the air in his lungs. To say nothing of the crumbling ship. He should have taken the Fire earlier. Above him he sees hooves. Of course there were horses in the ship. But they’re close to land. The others are there. He hopes that they will find their way to safety or better yet, they will find their way back. They’re good horses. His lungs burn as he looks for Morgana and realizes she’s gone.

His lungs burn, the knife in him burns, everything burns.

Being burned as a heretic isn’t how he saw this ending.

He hopes that they know he tried so hard to live. To get back to them. As he looks up and sees the horses, he figures if he’s going to sink so no-one can see his body, perhaps this is not the worse way to go. He can almost imagine that one of them is Goliath. Maybe Squirrel can name the other Lancelot. He hopes that Pym and Squirrel will care for him, he just has to tell himself that they will. Out of the corner of his eye he sees gold. He can’t help but look towards it as it shimmers and twists forward. Joined by others. The gold particles dart and swirl around him.

They look like minnows.

His lungs burn fiercer and he knows what Morgana said, but she only appears to those who are about to die. He knows this is his death. Holding on is just prolonging the inevitable. Still he tries. Even if his body is too broken to swim. He’s not sinking as he should be with the weight of his garments. But he cannot make himself swim. Even as the gold minnows circle him, like they are comforting him in his last moments. He fights on as much as he can but his lungs can only hold a breath for so long. But he has the minnows and the horses.

And somehow Arthur.

He stares because Arthur should not be here but he is. Even holding his breath Arthur manages a smile like they are old friends meeting in some tavern. Two things Lancelot has never done or had. Arthur gets his arm around his chest and Lancelot finds himself being dragged upwards. It hurts worse, but he holds on. Morgana appears to those who are dying but it’s Arthur who saves his life. They break the water. Every breath hurts but they are both gasping for air.

“I have him!” Arthur shouts upwards, “I have him! He’s alive!” Arthur flings a hand out and grips one of the horses. It’s Goliath. Goliath is here, “let’s go back,” Goliath immediately starts swimming.

“How—“

“It’s a long story,” Arthur says, “I’ll tell you when we have you patched up,” he promises, “just breathe for now, I have you.”

Lancelot nods.

Arthur and Goliath have him, he can manage to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the gang's back together! Thank you for those who commented on the last chapter for the like 10 seconds it was the last chapter before I posted this one. Please let me know your thoughts! Onwards!


	72. Tinder: Part 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for descriptions of Lancelot being hurt (stabbed, whipped, burned, almost drowned).

It takes Kaze and Bedivere to get him up with Arthur helping from the bottom.

Pym still doesn’t know how they manage.

Somehow between the three of them they get him down and out of the rain as it starts again, as though whatever made it stop offended it. Kaze pulls one of the buckets with the earth and the roots over but Pym holds her hand up to stop her. They’ve dressed him in his old clothes again. She can see the knife sticking out of his gut and knows that has to be addressed first. But if he heals and there’s something in the wound, she’s just going to have to cut him open again. He’s strong but any pain she can spare she wants to.

“He might have the hairshirt on,” Squirrel pipes up. She puts her hand down the front of his shirt and hisses as she pulls it back. Whatever they’ve lined it with is sharp enough to cut, “he does,” she says, “pass me that knife,” she instructs. He grabs it and she cuts the fastenings on his cloak, moving it aside. She cuts the sides of his tunic, not because she cares about the clothing but because she has to guide each layer over the knife handle, “Kaze? Can you help get him up?”

Kaze helps sit him up and they remove the wet clothing. Kaze swears and moves back, Pym looks at his back and her stomach rolls. The wounds there are like nothing she’s seen, not even the ones he put there himself. There doesn’t seem to be a part of him that’s not split open or burned. But it’s the knife that will kill him. Kaze carefully eases him down and looks at her.

“He has to touch the dirt right after,” she says.

“I’m ready,” Kaze tells her.

Pym nods and grips the handle before snatching her hand back. She knows the sensation. It’s iron. There’s already a welt on her palm. Kaze leans forward and she shakes her head. She can’t imagine what kind of damage is being done to him. She grabs the cloak and wraps it around the knife, pulling the hateful thing out. Lancelot doesn’t stir. Blood doesn’t spill from the wound like she’s dreading, but it wouldn’t. Not if it’s been burned like that. Kaze shoves his hand into the bucket.

Nothing happens.

He’s not dead, Pym refuses to even consider that. She presses her fingers to his neck and she can feel his heart beating. But nothing’s happening. Not the instant reaction she’s used to seeing when he touches the earth. She doesn’t know what’s happening. She doesn’t know if he knows either. If it’s the cold or the knife, if too much has happened—she looks at Kaze who shakes her head. None of them seem to know what’s happening. Before she can push Squirrel out, he runs off. Moments later he runs back, pulling a cloaked boy with him.

“Bors!” Pym gasps. Bors takes one look at Lancelot and bursts into tears, “Squirrel what—“

“You have to do it,” Squirrel says firmly.

“B-but—“

“Come on! He needs us,” Squirrel says.

Bors is still crying as he comes over. Squirrel pushes him towards the bucket of earth. Pym watches as he reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. She’s not sure what. He shoves his thumb into the dirt and drops it in, patting the dirt down. He closes his eyes and bites his lip to keep from trembling. For a moment nothing happens and then the Fingers appear faintly on his skin. The dirt trembles and she watches in amazement as something sprouts and pushes through. It grows and forms into a sapling. Bors opens his eyes and looks up at them. She watches Lancelot’s eyebrows draw together at the new scent and she nods at Kaze who presses his hand to the tree.

This time, it trembles and after a moment, it wilts and dies.

Pym peers at the wound and sees it’s begun to bleed as it heals. The iron burns are the hardest to heal, they scar the quickest. She hates what she needs to do, but before she can stop herself she picks up one of her own knives and works it into the wound. Kaze dives forward and presses into Lancelot’s shoulders as the pain wakes him. Pym goes as fast as she can, cutting away as much of the damage as she can see and going deeper still, until the wound is ugly and would be fatal, but it’s not iron burns.

“Do it again,” Squirrel says.

Bors wipes his eyes and repeats the process. Squirrel ducks under Kaze’s arms and grabs Lancelot’s hand, shoving it into the dirt. This time when the tree dies, the wound heals properly. Pym nearly collapses in relief. It’s the most life threatening, but there’s so much more. Lancelot’s eyes are still closed, but she knows he’s awake. Him waking up in pain is the last thing she was expecting or wanted. Though she knows that she should have known better. He’s not fighting them, though somehow his blood has still wound up on her hands and her knife. Kaze looks from her to the buckets of dirt to Bors.

“There may not be enough here to heal everything,” she says.

“As long as we heal the worst of it, we can go back to the island,” she says, “there should be enough there.”

“I’ll talk to the Raiders,” Kaze says, “do you need to cut anywhere else?”

“I don’t know,” Pym says, “did you see anything?”

“No,” she says, “his back is bad.”

“Help me turn him over,” Pym orders.

Kaze helps get him upright. Lancelot helps as much as he can but Pym can see he’s still in shock or lost within himself. Or forcing himself to be somewhere else. As much as Pym wants some sign that he’s alright, anything that helps him escape the pain is more important. She grabs whatever dry fabric she can and wraps it into some kind of cushioning. They can deal with the burns on his face and his—

Her mind goes blank for a second, or maybe it’s some kind of denial.

But when they lay him on his stomach, she sees what they’ve done to his scalp. The hateful symbol is burned there, fresh and dark. It’s much larger and more ornate, as though it’s meant to be seen in a way the previous one was not. Some of it is marred by the hatch marks that decorate all of him, but she knows the symbol’s significance.

If he can’t heal all of it, she has to do something to help with the pain.

She turns to the book and nearly smacks into Morgana, who has appeared quite silently in the most inconvenient place. The boys jump, Kaze’s hand goes to her blade and Pym immediately puts herself in between Morgana and Lancelot.

“You can’t have him,” she blurts out.

“I can,” Morgana says, “but he’s not what I’m here for,” she throws up her veil and her face is the Morgana Pym knows. Almost. There’s a wisdom to her eyes and a weight to her that wasn’t there previously. She’s turned from a breeze to a gale, “she’s right,” she says looking at Kaze, “he cannot heal all the way. If he does he’s going to overload his Fire and blow the ship up. I’ll be here for all of you instead.”

Pym looks at the buckets and knows that isn’t an option. Much as she wishes that it was. Besides her Lancelot’s breath catches and she knows there’s limited time before he’s healed enough to wake up. She isn’t sure if she imagines seeing the muscles in his back or not, but she knows those wounds have to be dealt with next. Morgana looks at her and she turns to Kaze.

“Hold his shoulders,” she says, “I have to clean them out,” Kaze looks at Morgana before pressing her hands to Lancelot’s shoulders. If the Hidden are feeling kind they’ll let her use her magic to do this and blow them clean. They are, but it brings Lancelot further back from wherever he’s gone, “it’s alright,” she finds herself saying, not sure if he can hear her, “I’m almost done,” she adds and she has no choice except to get fresh water and pour it over the cuts. 

When she finally is, his fingers are digging into the wood of the table. She’s never seen him express discomfort like this and it makes her stomach drop. She looks up at Kaze who takes her eyes from Morgana to look at her.

“Keep going,” she says.

Pym nods, though she feels sick at the thought of it. But she knows that she’s right. Kaze presses Lancelot’s hand to the tree and this time it dies faster and a glimmer of Fey Fire is left in it’s wake. But the skin of Lancelot’s back has gone from torn and loose to simply torn. The deep cuts are now more similar to the whip marks she recognizes very well. They’re deep but the placement of them is hauntingly familiar. She’s seen them before on his back, when they first met. She’s not sure she will ever forget the sight of them. He’s come so far from doing that, she doesn’t know how they made him return to it. But her anger towards them is matched only by her sadness for him.

“He’s losing control of it,” she says, “we need to stop.”

“This is still bad,” Kaze says, looking over at Morgana who keeps watching.

“She’s right.”

Her heart jumps and though it’s only been a few days, it feels as though she’s half forgotten the sound of his voice. She drops down to see him try to open his eyes and then stop, his face screwing up in discomfort. Quickly she jumps up and grabs whatever dry cloth she can manage, wetting it and wringing it out over his eyes. When he opens them they’re still red and irritated from the salt, but his eyes are open and she can foolishly believe that this is all going to be alright.

“I can’t control it,” he rasps, “it’s alright.”

“It’s not,” she says, “is any of it life threatening?” He looks at her, “Lancelot!”

“Help me up.”

Kaze moves forward and helps him sit up. Pym immediately wants to object, but the sight of his blood on the table makes her think better of it. Lancelot goes pale and she grabs the nearest bucket, shoving it under his mouth as he expels what little he has in his stomach. Mostly it seems like it’s sea water and bile. The ship is barely moving, even she doesn’t feel sea sick. He forces his eyes open with effort and looks at Morgana. Pym doesn’t know what’s happened between them but a moment later she looks incredibly frustrated with him.

“He’s still bleeding inside,” she says, “they knocked him unconscious, most of his healing’s gone to his head.”

“We have to get him off the ship then,” Pym says, “we need a sheet or something. We’ll take him to the island and he can heal there.”

“I can walk,” he says.

“You absolutely cannot,” Pym shoots back, “where’s Bedivere?”

“She’s right,” Kaze says when Lancelot opens his mouth, “save your strength.”

“How’s it goin—“ Arthur falls silent at the sight of Morgana. For a moment Pym wasn’t sure if he could see her. Or if her presence meant her own death was on hand. But Arthur sees her. Something like uncertainty crosses Morgana’s face and she looks almost like the woman Pym met. Before the look can even fully dissipate, Arthur is closing the distance between them. Pym holds her breath, hoping that Morgana will be solid and real. Somehow she is. And when they collide it’s with a wet sound from all the water that’s soaked Arthur, “I didn’t know if you heard me,” he says.

“I did,” Morgana promises, gripping his tunic, “every prayer, every night, I couldn’t make it back until now. I’m so sorry—“

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, “you’re back, that’s all that matters.”

Morgana looks as though she has more to say but she nods instead.

“I’m back for as long as I can manage,” she promises, “I’ll explain later,” she looks at Lancelot, “right now he needs to get on shore to heal or you risk him losing control and setting the boat on fire.”

“Well we don’t want that,” Arthur says and there’s such surety in his voice, Pym almost believes it, “how are you feeling?” Lancelot gives him a look, “fair enough. We’ve been getting the horses to the shore,” he looks at the trees, “how—“

“Bors has a green thumb,” Squirrel says.

Arthur looks at the tearful boy and nods.

“Can you come and help us?”

“I need more seeds,” he says.

“Is Tristain here?” Lancelot asks. Kaze nods, “bring her,” he says, “she should see it.”

His eyes slam shut and she looks at Kaze. But it’s Squirrel who runs to him and jostles his leg, probably one of the only uninjured parts of him. Somehow. Lancelot manages to open his eyes. Squirrel looks utterly unafraid and Pym realizes he’s seen Lancelot in this state before. Or something much closer to it.

“Hey, you gotta keep your eyes open. You’re scaring Bors.”

As if on cue, Bors lets out a very loud, very genuine wail. Pym honestly can’t tell the difference if he’s faking it or he’s being sincere as he usually is when he cries. But given that he’s rooting in the dirt for seeds, she thinks it may be the former. She catches his eye and shakes her head slightly and the wailing goes down in volume. But Lancelot’s eyes are open, focusing on the ground.

“Here, switch with me,” she says quickly to Kaze.

She wedges herself under his arm, keeping him upright. This close she can feel how feverish he is. She can also see how deeply burned his hands are. Bedivere said they knew what to do. She is just grateful that the Paladins had no idea they would know what to do as well. He tenses and she sees his eyes close but she can feel he’s awake. His head turns slightly towards her.

“I smelled you, on the wind,” he says, his eyes searching her hands.

She refuses to give into any desire to just collapse against him in relief. There’s no time for that right now. Once he’s better, she plans on not letting him out of her sight for a long time. She pulls up her sleeve showing him the shallow cut most of them wear.

“We wanted you to know we were coming,” she says.

“I did,” he looks at her, “I tried to slow them,” his eyes close again and his weight leans heavily on her, “I tried to stay alive.”

“You did both,” she promises, “we saw your signal.”

He smiles as best he can, though it makes the marks on his face twist horribly. It makes her think again of the first time they met, when the idea of him smiling was completely unfathomable. Probably to both of them. There’s nowhere she can touch him that won’t hurt, no matter how much she aches to do it. She can just help keep him upright and awake as everyone gathers what supplies they’ll need to get him to shore.

There are so many stronger people, she doesn’t know why she is the one who helps him stand up. But she does, though it’s Arthur who helps him into the makeshift stretcher they’ve made for him. When they get out from the shelter, she’s surprised to see that the rain has stopped. Everything is still slippery and it’s a miracle they make it ashore with minor falls and bruising. Immediately Goliath moves from the herd of horses and comes over, shoving his face into the hammock.

“I’ll be alright,” Lancelot rasps and though his hands are hurt and shake terribly, he still reaches up to touch Goliath’s muzzle.

Pym takes the horses reins, knowing it’s pointless to leave him behind. He’s rather like Squirrel in that regard. She looks up and around for any place that might be somewhat sheltered.

“Up there,” Tristain says.

“What?”

“It’s up there,” she repeats, taking in a deep breath of air. They look at her blankly, “the village,” she says, “come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos/comments/tumblr messages. I am so grateful for each and every one. I also want to give a special thank you for those who commented on both chapters. I was amazed and beyond grateful, so thank you.
> 
> For those who are wondering wtf is going on with the Hidden, don't worry I am going to explain it. It's not an arbitrary 'everyone can do everything with the Hidden now due to convenience'. There is a reason for what's going on, we're just focused on Lancelot right now.
> 
> Anyway as always please let me know your thoughts! You guys are the best. And as I said on my Tumblr, don't worry the soft fluffy stuff is coming. See you in the next chapter!


	73. Tinder: Part 31

“Enough! He’s healed enough. Help me get him inside the tent. We’ll continue later,” Pym says.

Hands help him up and he’s so grateful he could weep, but he doesn’t have any more bodily fluid to spare. He realizes that they’re on the island and he can faintly remember healing and making it there and healing again. Mostly he remembers anchoring himself to Pym’s scent and the press of Kaze’s hands as she held him down when he wanted to do nothing but twist from the pain. Unlike when he was a prisoner, no-one drags him. They help him stagger, even if he has to lean on them very heavily. Nearly all the way. His eyes have been rinsed of salt but he thinks they must be still blurry.

“Easy, we’re almost there,” Arthur assures him. On his other side Kaze nods. They both get him in the tent and settled on the ground, “I can help this time.”

Kaze looks at them both and then nods, slipping out of the tent. Lancelot can feel the aches and burns all over. They’re half healed but he doesn’t have it in him to pull more energy. Not at the moment. Arthur has no concept of that but he doesn’t say anything that Lancelot would expect from a man-blood. He just offers a smile and sits in front of him. Over his shoulder, Lancelot sees Pym hurry in. She glances at the two of them and smiles before she looks at the rest of him.

“How long do you think you’ll need?” She asks.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Alright,” she says, “I’m going to clean and cover your back,” she says. He knows she’s telling him things for his own benefit and nods, “Morgana said you got hit in the head.”

“I don’t remember getting onto the boat,” he says.

“How does it feel now?”

“Aches,” he says.

“But you’re not nauseous or dizzy? Having trouble staying awake?” He shakes his head, “good.”

He realizes that he was having trouble staying awake back on the boat, for more than just trying to escape the pain. When he and Squirrel ran, he had to heal himself as well and it took a moment before he realized it was all going to his head. Though with those blows he managed to stay conscious. Here it was a much more precise strike. He’s lucky he woke up when he did. Cleaning his back stings horribly but he holds himself still. A few moments later, something wonderfully cool starts tracing the hatch marks from the net. He remembers it from when he had the cuffs on. Only it seems much stronger this time.

“Help me with this.”

Arthur puts his hands on his shoulders and he and Pym wind the bandages around his torso and over his shoulders until everything is covered. It feels like he can breathe a little better with the wounds covered, even if the rest of him still aches and burns. Arthur looks over his shoulder.

“Probably his hands next?”

“I think the brand,” she says, “keep his hands there.”

“You don’t have to—“ he starts and she stops. He looks at Arthur who somehow seems to catch on.

“Right, I can do it,” he starts.

“Stop,” Pym says firmly. Lancelot feels her hand settle on his shoulder, “it’s alright with me, I know it’s not there by choice. Do you want Arthur to do it instead?”

It seems like a foolish thing to voice but they both look at him patiently.

  
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says.

“I’m not,” she promises, “may I?” He nods finally and she carefully touches the burn, taking care to move any hair out of the way as she does. It feels cool against his skull. He knows the burn is a minor thing, but he itches to get it off his skin more than any other wound, “done,” Pym says, touching his shoulder again, “now we can switch.”

His pants are still damp with the salt and they are careful to keep his hands from touching them. His hand are a mess. Thankfully what wasn’t superficial was split open at some point and healed along with the worst of it. But the hatch marks are bad. Losing flexibility in his hands isn’t something he wants to think about. It hurts deep inside to think that all of this was orchestrated by Father. Even if some logical part of him knew that he was doing it. He thinks that the iron box and the net are probably deep underwater, rusting where they belong. That he survived. Father may have planned for his betrayal, but he couldn’t have planned for everything. He focuses back on the present as he hears the tent fall closed as Arthur leaves. He looks at Pym as she examines his hands and picks one up.

“I’m sorry,” he says. She looks up at him, surprised.

“What are you apologizing for? None of this is your fault,” she says. He hesitates, “Arthur told me you surrendered because it was the only way, I didn’t think you wanted to go with them.”

The fact that Arthur realized, that anyone realized, is the kind of miracle that Father dreamed about witnessing. The fact that he had the sense to tell her, even moreso. He wasn’t sure what to expect coming back, the important thing was to get back at all. But the fact that she’s not angry or upset at him is oddly relieving. Like a wound he was bracing for but didn’t have to suffer though getting.

“After what happened in the cell, I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”

“It was just bad timing,” she says, looking down at his hands. She carefully spreads the poultice across the back and begins to wrap it. She does the other one as well, “how does it feel?”

“Better,” he says, “you’ve gotten better at making this.”

“It seemed like someone was going to need it,” she says, her face blushing. She settles his hands in his lap and gets to her knees, “I’m sorry, I don’t think there’s a way to do this without touching them.”

“It’s fine,” he says.

She nods and dips her fingers in, spreading the herbs over the marks on his face. They only touched him once with the net there and only briefly, it’s barely even a burn except where Abbott Wicklow forced it. But he imagines it looks quite odd. She looks at him apologetically before she carefully touches his Marks. The coldness surprises him and he moves his head back.

“Did I hurt you?” She asks quickly.

“No,” he says, “it’s—“ he stops, “I haven’t had them touched. It’s cold.”

“Oh,” she says, “I can avoid them?”

“No,” he says and leans forward.

  
She sighs and carefully touches the skin, as lightly as she can. It’s still alarmingly cold. But given the heat of his skin, it feels almost nice. He never thought the skin might absorb things differently, it’s not as if his Marks are touched frequently.

“This reminds me of the first time we met,” Pym says, “when I had to tell you I wasn’t going to touch them,” he looks up at her in surprise, “I thought that was your greatest worry about your Fey heritage.”

He manages to smile at the memory and how ridiculous a thing it was to be concerned about even then. Smiling is not a good idea. It makes the burns move. Unfortunately around Pym, attempts to not smile seem to result in the opposite occurring. She finishes most of his face and ducks down underneath his chin, adding more to his face and the side of his neck. There’s no good way to cover it. It’s just a matter of letting it soak in until he’s regained enough strength to heal himself more.

It seems insane that they would go through this much trouble for him.

They’ve split up, that much is clear. And stolen a boat—though given it’s Guinevere, he imagines that was more of a relaxing event. But she’s sacrificed a good number of important members of her forces to find him. If they hadn’t headed them off here, she could have been without them for months. It’s a foolish, foolish thing to do for one Fey. Even with his destructive abilities.

“Lancelot?”

The gentle speaking of his name drags him back from the miserable thoughts. Pym looks at him curiously. He wants to deny anything is amiss but a thought occurs to him.

“Does your book say how to make a gift stronger?” He asks, “I can be moved—“

“Stop,” she cuts in, “you’re strong enough. You have to give your body a chance to mend.”

“We shouldn’t waste time here,” he says, “Guinevere needs us back.”

  
“She does. And the Pope will probably send people out here to look for them,” she says, “but for right now you should just focus on healing—“ he opens his mouth, “recovering,” she cuts in, “without straining your abilities,” she looks across his face, “for now you just need to rest.”

The idea of resting or sleeping rather, sounds horrifying. He’s lost the ability not to wake screaming. He can’t imagine what he would do if he was on anything flammable. Even the tent seems as though it’s asking for trouble. As his wounds have healed and he knows he’s among friends, the smell of the place is growing more grating. He wants to be off the island. No matter if he burns it down in the process. He’s almost grateful for the burns on his face and the herbs that are smeared over them, if only for the smell that overwhelms that of the dead. He shakes his head, it’s the most he can manage. All the work that’s been done and he feels as though he’s lost the ability to speak.

Pym shifts closer to him, mirroring their positions so their knees are bumped together. It’s a more gentle touch, but it’s firm enough to jar him back to the present. She doesn’t look at him as though he’s done something shameful or someone to be afraid of or repulsed by. Or someone whose upset her. He doesn’t know why it matters so much that he didn’t make this worse for her, but it does. In a way that it doesn’t quite matter as much for everyone else.

“What is that smell?” They both turn to see Squirrel standing there and something in him relaxes in a way he doesn’t have words for at the sight of him, “is it supposed to distract from your face?”

“Squirrel!”

“It’s an honest question!” He says coming over, “you look awful.”

“As terrible as last time?” He asks.

“Yeah I remember saying you shouldn’t do that again,” Sauirrel says, shaking his head with fake gravitas, “you should have listened to me. It would have saved you your good looks.”

“Whatever will I do?” He asks mildly.

“I don’t know,” Squirrel deadpans, “don’t you want to know why we brought a horse to rescue you?”

“I imagine he wouldn’t let you leave without him,” Lancelot says.

“I told you he’d guess,” Squirrel says sitting down, “so why do you look like when we ran away?”

Pym looks at him and he focuses down at his hands. That somehow makes it easier, not looking at them.

“I’m anxious to get off the island,” he says.

“Me too,” Squirrel agrees, “I think Arthur’s the only one who wants to stay. When Guinevere finds out he jumped off the boat with Goliath, she’s going to kill him,” he looks at him, “wait why do you want to leave? Aren’t you happy to be here?”

“No.”

“I can help you get some rest,” Pym says, “you shouldn’t dream if I’ve done this right.”

Squirrel gives him the tiniest shake of his head. Lancelot ignores the advice and nods. Logically he knows that if he gives his body a chance to rest, he’ll be able to use his gift with control again. She pulls out a small vial and uncaps it. His hands are fairly useless. She helps him drink it and the bitter taste almost makes him feel sick all over again. Squirrel jumps up and wedges himself behind him.

“I tried to warm you it was gross,” he says, helping ease him down.

Gross as it may be, through some combination of it and the herbs under his nose, Lancelot is half asleep by the time they lay him down. The last thing he feels is Pym’s hand on his brow, then he slips away. It’s a sharp constant to his drugged sleep before, the only horrors when he wakes are the ones in his mind. No-one is trying to hurt him.

His last thought is that he is safe and, no matter how terrible things are, very glad to be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback/kudos/tumblr messages. They mean the world to me. Let me know your thoughts and I will see you in the next chapter!


	74. Tinder: Part 32

Pym hates feeling this helpless.

Lancelot falls asleep almost instantly and the trust he puts in them to do that, the trust he puts in her to take the vial, is humbling. She has to fight the wave of shame that threatens her. When she was rescued she was with them for barely a few hours. He was with them for so much longer. She knows the circumstances were different, but it still seems so wrong. Given the state of him, she can’t imagine what they would have found after a month. If there would have been anything left to rescue. She looks at Squirrel and touches his shoulder.

“He’s going to be alright,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

She nods and is glad that it’s not a lie. She’s sure, she doesn’t know how long it will take or if being the same is even possible, but she’s sure Lancelot will be alright. One way or another. She has to believe in his strength, the same way he’s believed in theirs.

“I think you making him laugh helped,” she says. Squirrel looks a little happier at that, “do you want to sit with him a while?” She offers. Squirrel nods, “call if you need me.”

She glances back at them, Squirrel looks content to sit with him even in his bruised state. Pym knows it’s better than the first time when they made their way to the Fey. At least Lancelot is able to heal himself more easily and the two are not alone. She can’t imagine what that first journey must have been like. She steps out and onto the stone of the strange village they’ve entered. It’s certainly a place that she never thought she would see. Nor was it one she expected to exist as much as it does. It makes her wonder if her village looks like this. There is probably even less of it still standing. Everything seems to be structured around a central pit, though the houses all have them in front of them and in them. Unsure of what she’s looking at, she seeks out the one person she imagines could tell her.

“Hello,” she says, finding her easily. She’s staring out at the ruins of the ship, “are you alright being here?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Tristain questions, though as usual with her it comes out more as a challenge, “I only found this place because it reeked of Ash Folk and I smelled his blood,” she continues.

“You don’t seem to care about the Ash Folk,” Pym observes. Tristain looks away, “but you want to kill him for revealing the Fire,” she can see Tristain’s patience wearing thin and only the knowledge that Tristain will think twice about killing her makes her keep going, “you don’t have the same scar from them trying to cut you neck.”

“Because they didn’t,” she snaps, “my parents ran away or tried to. They were cowards. They disobeyed.”

Whatever Pym was expecting her to say, that was not it. She’s noticed that compared to Lancelot, Tristain’s skin is much less scarred. She believes, not just in her faith or the ways of the Ash Folk that she values, no she believes in herself. Unlike Lancelot who was raised on brutality and being torn apart, Tristain seems to have been raised to believe she is valuable. She believes she is entitled to Lancelot’s life for any reason that suits her, Pym isn’t sure she even truly needs a reason. Even months being chained and carted about haven’t crippled that belief like a few days with the Paladins seem to have for Lancelot.

“They protected you,” she says.

“Of course they did,” she replies, “Didn’t your parents ever wish you had been born a boy?” Pym glances down and nods, “it’s the opposite for the Ash Folk. My parents were proud to have a girl,” anger crosses her face, “so proud they let it cloud their judgement.”

“Which you would know nothing about,” Pym observes. Tristain scoffs, “they tried to run?”

“Lancelot already broke under torture—not that it took much,” she adds, “when they found us, I was valuable enough to be kept alive.”

It makes an odd amount of sense, a lot of sense actually. Lancelot’s been torn down and Tristain has been built up. Both wear the affect of their upbringing and their scars or lack of them. She sees Tristain looking at her out of the corner of her eye. Not like she’s judging her reaction but because she seems to be anxious about something.

“You look anxious,” she says.

“I’m not, I need something,” Tristain says. Pym raises her eyebrows but doesn’t immediately say anything, “I need a hawk.”

“A what?”

“A hawk,” Tristain repeats, like that’s a normal thing to ask for, “I need the boy to make a tree so I can bait it and catch one.”

“I’m not following,” Pym says.

“There are hawks here,” Tristain says, “my family used to use them to hunt,” her voice takes on a clipped tone, “I want one.”

“We’re not giving you a bird of prey,” Pym sputters.

“I brought you here didn’t I?” Tristain challenges, “we both know if I hadn’t Lancelot would be dead.”

“You did that because Kaze beat you and you want to kill him yourself,” Pym says.

“Get me the hawk and I’ll let him live,” Tristain says, “call you not outsiders.”

Pym stares at her and she stares right back. This means something to her, that much is clear. It’s the same way she’s negotiated for a Bedivere’s freedom. Or to get him to hear her confession. Pym can think of so many good reasons not to get a bird of a prey anywhere near Tristain, but she can also see the advantages of having her on their side. Even fully healed, another good swordsman would be an advantage. One who thinks like a Trinity Guard and can make Fey Fire would be even better.

“Bors already made trees, use on of those.”

“Bait,” Tristain says, “Lancelot’s signal will have attracted the ones I want anyway.”

Pym shakes her head and goes to her pack. There’s dried meat in there. Tristain gives her a disgusted look and Pym throws her hands up.

“What kind of bait?”

“Freshly killed. Give me your knife.”

“Absolutely not,” Pym says.

“Guinevere’s not here to scold you, I’ll give it right back.”

“No!”

Tristain crosses her arms and Pym glares right back. She is absolutely not giving Tristain her knife. She’s already had to use it on Lancelot. If it stays in its sheath the rest of the time then they will be lucky.

“I’ll tie this up and if we catch a hawk, then we can figure out if you can keep it,” she says.

She strings the meat up in one of the trees Bors has grown for when Lancelot wakes up. Then she goes back to the tent and she scrubs as clean as she can manage before deciding that if she can catch a few hours of rest, that’s probably a better use of her time.

She slips into the tent to see Squirrel curled up against the side, fast asleep. She lowers herself next to Lancelot. He’s drugged and breathing steadily, the poultice is doing its job. Hopefully that will help take some of the burden off his gift. It’s a strange thing to think about the first time they met, how cautious and closed off he was. How right it seemed like he should be that way. Now when she sees him close himself off, she wants to shake him until he sees that he isn’t that man anymore. Even as she stares at him, his face draws together and his eyes open. She realizes that her scent must have gotten to him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Help me up,” he asks.

She decides that’s a battle not worth fighting and nods, helping him sit and then stand up. His feet are steadier under him, but he still leans on her as she helps him outside. The fact that he’s gotten any rest at all is a miracle, she reminds herself. Let alone the hours that he has. It’s a beautiful night out, she can hear the waves but the lack of trees makes the moon and stars look unnaturally bright. His marks catch the light where they shine through. He leads her away from the others. Bors has made several trees in preparation but he leads her past even those.

“Where are we going?” She asks.

“I remember a place,” he says, “there.”

She sees a hole cut out in the floor. She helps him lean against the wall. Initially it looks like it’s to be lifted, but after she judges for a moment, she realizes it slides. She pushes it back. Surprisingly it slides easily. Easier than she would have expected. She helps Lancelot up. He focuses and as they descend into the darkness, one of his hands gets wrapped in green flame. It incinerates the bandages and Pym fights not to scold him. The stairs take them in a tight circle down to the bottom of a large chamber.

The green light catches things embedded in the wall that reflect the green light. She realizes the walls are stone but formed in a way that leaves wide gaps of tightly packed earth visible. It’s like being in a giant cellar. Except it’s not, she can feel the weight of it. This place is special. Lancelot turns his head abruptly and looks at her.

“Do you hear that?”

“No,” she says, immediately thinking of how injured her must still be, “come—“

“Wait,” he says.

She bites her tongue as he looks down, focusing on whatever it is he can hear. His head tilts one way and then the other, as if it’s searching for the sound. But it tilts towards her finally and he opens his eyes. A shiver goes down her spine at the look on his face. She’s seen it before on Nimue. On Lenore. Even on Morgana sometimes.

“Alright come on,” she says, “they’ll still be talking after you heal.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that why we’re here? There’s roots,” she says motioning to the wall, “put your hands against the stones and let me get your back clean.”

He obeys her and she undoes the bandages, wiping as much as she can. None of the wounds are open but she doesn’t want to risk his skin healing over something it shouldn’t. He wipes his face and skull quickly before burning off the bandages. He doesn’t pray, Pym’s not sure why. The green light stays in his fingers as he looks at the dirt. It must be a trick but Pym is sure it looks like one of the roots is reaching for him. He reaches back and she swears the root and his finger caress like a dance before they lock around each other.

The Fire seems to spark from the inside, but miraculously it has a place to go. It fills the inside of each of the glass pieces, though now she can see they are’s pieces but cups embedded in the soil. They’re cut so the light is reflected all around even more than when his fire touched the outsides. In the light she can see Lancelot’s skin has pulled back together. There are still marks, but the ones on his face, neck and hands are gone. Only those on his scalp and back remain.

“What is this place?” She asks.

“Somewhere sacred,” he says. He looks at her and Pym gives him an exasperated look. A flicker of a smile crosses his face, “I don’t remember everything,” he looks at her curiously, “can you not hear that?”

She only hears the wind and the sound of his fire and shakes her head.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not certain,” he admits.

She doesn’t know why they are both whispering, just that it seems wrong to speak in normal voices here. She recognizes the weight of the place from back when the Sky Folk had one, though it was more open than this. This place seems to have been built to be away from the elements, like the roots that grow in it. She doesn’t hear whatever he does, but when she steps on something she somehow instinctively knows that she’s standing at the very middle of this place. Where all the roots come together.

And if she wasn’t sure, the glowing spiral would tell her.

“One of these is glowing,” she says, looking down at the runes. He crouches down and looks at her across the green flickering light. She tears her eyes away and looks at the glowing runes, “can you read it?”

“It’s not words,” he says, “it’s Marks,” he says, “all of our Marks are here,” she isn’t sure if he’s speaking to her or himself, “this is where we all are connected to the Green.”

She looks and realizes the Marks on his face are of the same pattern. If she looks at the other swirls, in one of them she can see ones that look like Tristain. Lancelot looks down at the Marks on the ground and touches the ones under his eyes. She can’t imagine what must be going through his head, what being back here must be like.

It feels wrong to be here.

Being of a different Folk has never quite felt wrong, but this place seems sacred to the Ash Folk specifically. She thinks of Tristain’s anger at him revealing the Fire to outsiders, the divide that came between the Ash Folk and the rest of the Fey. She can’t fault them for being more insular than most. She doesn’t know what Lancelot is hearing, but it’s clear he belongs here. She straightens up.

“I can wait for you outside,“ she starts, “this seems like an Ash Folk thing—“

She stops when his hand catches her wrist and lays flat over hers.

It’s a strange thing, she’s been doing nothing but touching him since he got back, but it’s been as a healer. He’s healed now. She just imagined that he wouldn’t want to be touched after he was. But he lays his hand over hers and their eyes lock.

“I don’t think I should be here, as a Sky Fey,” she says.

“I’ve been to theirs,” he says.

“That’s not the same,” she argues.

He looks at her and she tells herself there’s no reason for it to feel like the air has gotten heavier. He’s wrong, she doesn’t want to be here to desecrate the place like she imagines he was when he invaded the Sky Folk. From what she’s seen of the Ash Folk capabilities, that’s not something she wants to anger. He looks at her quietly, patiently, like he could spend the rest of his days looking at her and it makes the most peculiar feeling spread out from somewhere in her chest.

“You belong here as much as any Ash Folk,” he says, dropping his hand, “you can go if you want,” he adds, “but you belong.”

Pym knows the heat rising in her face has nothing to do with where they are. She’s certainly not having a physical reaction to the place. She doesn’t want to think of what she might be having a physical reaction to or why the sight of Arthur laughing on the deck of the boat is suddenly flashing through her head.

“A-alright,” she says, “alright,” she finally manages to break their staring, “But keep the lights going, we don’t need either of us breaking our necks down here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments/kudos etc. This 2 chapter a day thing will not continue due to my offline schedule, but for the moment please enjoy! Let me know your thoughts. Onwards!


	75. Tinder: Part 33

Lancelot doesn’t know how he knows this place, only that he does.

The whispers tell him he needs to be here, for what reason he cannot say. He cannot even fully understand them, the speak a language he doesn’t know. But he knows they need him to be here. He should question it, but he follows it instead. He’s heard these whispers before. He knows they don’t mean him the harm that they should. Behind him he sees Pym carefully turn, taking as much of it in as she can. If the whispers don’t want her hear, he’s willing to go against them. But they don’t seem to feel much either way on the matter. He’s not sure why she cannot hear them though.

He feels different.

He doesn’t know why the roots of that particular plant wanted to connect with him or what the significance is, but he’s acutely aware of the Fire inside him. In a way that he knows he wasn’t before. It feels like it’s more of a struggle to hold it back, like it’s reaching for his fingertips constantly. Like it’s trying to come out. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to do something or just stand here. The whispers are quiet things that just seem to grow louder when he’s doing something they feel strongly about. He tries to remember how he knows this place but it feels like a dream, or like something he isn’t sure he was ever supposed to see.

He walks back over to the wall, following the path from his Mark to the window of earth. The root that he reached for is gone. Without fully understanding why, he pushes his fingers into the dirt. The whispers get louder. His fingers hit something wet and cold. They come out dark. It’s the smell of it that catches him off guard. He’s smelled this before. Smell has guided him throughout all of this, but this specific one is much stronger. He closes his eyes and breathes in, letting his mind follow.

His mother brought him here.

He still cannot see her face, but he can hear her voice. Not the words, but the tones of it. There’s a sharp pain in his fingers and then he feels her press his hands into the dirt. She helps him paint his marks and then the mark of their family. He feels himself swell with pride. When they leave, she promises that they will return when he’s a man. As they leave she takes the Fire with her. He’s excited to one day do that as well.

Lancelot opens his eyes.

He’s not small anymore, the dirt is much closer to his face. He doesn’t need to be lifted up. He turns from the wall and walks over to Pym. She looks up at him curiously and he knows she’s probably not going to like what he’s about to ask for.

“I need your knife,” he says.

“Now you really want to replicate the day we met,” she says, “can’t you keep your blood inside you for one day?”

This place is sacred, it’s very hard not to smile.

“Tomorrow,” he promises.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” she says, handing him the blade.

If there is a knife that is supposed to be a part of it he’s out of luck. Still he reasons that he has to try. He pricks his fingertips in rapid succession and presses his hands into the dirt again. His blood mixes with all of his kin who have done it before. Deep in the earth, though he cannot see it, he feels the roots reaching for his skin. He has to hold his Fire back with skill. When he pulls his hands free they are covered in the clay. He’s spent enough time loathing his own marks that he can trace them well enough. But he looks over at Pym.

“Are the Marks covered?” He asks. Though she has no clue what is going on, she comes forward.

“Almost,” she says, “can I?” He nods and she touches the clay, “it’s cold,” she remarks, carefully she touches the edges of the lines, inspecting her work in the light, “now they are.”

He nods his thanks and goes over to where his Marks are laid out on the ground. He lets his instinct and whatever fragment of memory he has guide him as he presses his fingers to the outline, painting it in the same mud. He realizes he’s holding his breath when he hears Pym forcibly exhale. It shouldn’t surprise him that nothing happens in the room. He doesn’t remember anything big happening in his memories and it seems like the kind of thing he would remember. It feels horribly anticlimactic. After all, after everything that he’s done why would a place like this reveal anything to him. Why would any Ash Folk ritual work? Even if his logic says that he’s dealing with a half remembered thing and probably missed something. He looks up at Pym who smiles sympathetically.

“Was something—“

“I don’t remember,” he says.

“Well you turned off your Fire without praying, so that’s something,” she offers.

She’s right about that. He flattens his hands against the stone and goes to stand up when he feels a narrow ridge in the stone. He doesn’t know why but it cannot be a mistake that it’s there. He doesn’t know why but he can feel Fire. Not his, but there is Fire down there. He closes his eyes and focuses, sending his own Flame to join it. There’s a moment of hesitation and then something unbearably hot shoots up and presses to his fingertips. He keeps his face smooth, the heat is difficult to bear but some part of him knows to keep his fingertips there. The clay takes some of the heat, but he can feel it still. He waits and then releases the Fire, not taking it back. It settles somewhere deep in the earth of this place. He doesn’t know how he knows but he is aware of it.

“Lancelot?”

He opens his eyes to the pitch black and Pym’s voice. He rises up and directs the fire to his hand. He wasn’t expecting for his Fire to be different. The Flames have taken on an almost blue tint, they seem darker. But most incredibly though they cast light around, when Pym looks at him her eyes don’t water like they usually do. He closes his fingers around the Fire and it goes out with barely a thought, only to reignite a moment later with the same ease.

“What was that?” She asks, “what happened?”

“There’s a Fire down there,” he explains, “from the Ash Folk. I added mine,” he can’t explain fully what it feels like or what has just happened.

“It sounds like a coming of age ritual,” she says, “you needed a level of skill to do it.” she points out, “like becoming a Knight.”

It makes a logical amount of sense. There are none to tell him for sure. He realizes for the first time that the whispers are gone. He cannot hear them. He’s not sure what they are or why he can’t all of a sudden, or if he ever will again. But he can see the correlation.

“The voices stopped when I did that,” he admits. Pym nods but he sees some shadow cross her face, the same as when he mentioned them earlier, “what is it?”

“I’ll explain when we leave,” she says.

He nods and takes her hand, following his nose back to the stairs. The Fire has gone out, but he still brushes his fingertips against the wall as they pass. Like he remembers seeing done before. When they make it up and back onto the island, he extinguishes the flames and pulls the stone back over the opening. Straightening up, he looks at Pym.

“Nimue used to say the Hidden sounded like whispers,” she admits, “they would talk to her in a way I’ve never heard them talk to another,” she looks up at him, “they would guide her.”

He thinks back to pursuing the Sky Folk, to hunting Nimue down. He remembers hearing the whispers a handful of times. Even in the weeks leading up to the initial attack. He thinks of how radically his life has been changed by the Sky Folk. But he can’t say that this was their plan, after all he was guided to the Sky Folk to destroy them. He’s killed many and the survivors he saw take off to Avalon. He could say that the Ash Folk might have accepted him because he is Ash Folk, on a genetic level, why the Hidden would speak to him he has no idea.

“Have you heard them?”

“Oh, well, no,” Pym says, “my knot magic is the most I can connect to them. Squirrel says that he’s heard them, Bors as well but you’ve seen what they can do,” she gives a small smile that’s almost too filled with self loathing to be called that, “Gawain heard them once,” she says, “but Nimue had the strongest connection to them, I’m honestly surprised any of our magic is working here. They must want to protect you.”

“Or they are following the High Summoner,” he counters.

“Please, I’m only that because there’s no-one else,” he opens his mouth but she waves off the argument, “are we supposed to leave the clay on you? It’s cracking off.”

He looks down at his hands and realizes she’s right. He can feel it on his marks. He works a thumb underneath the clay. It peels off but a darker stain has taken to his fingertips. When he peels it off his face, he looks at her.

“Do they look different?”

She steps closer and takes the back of his hands, looking at his fingertips. She peers at his eyes and nods.

“They’re a bit darker, they match your fingertips.”

He frowns and picks up her hand, turning it over. He’s not sure how he missed the burn across it before. He looks at her and she shrugs.

“I didn’t realize the handle was iron,” she admits. He feels anger and guilt churn in his stomach. When she goes to pull her hand back, he closes his fingers around it. There’s no force behind it but she stop all the same, “it’s fine,” she says, “i was more focused on getting it out of you, I barely noticed.”

“I didn’t realize you were hurt,” he says.

“You’ve been a little busy dying,” she points out.

“I was trying to stay alive,” he counters, “we need to get something on this so it doesn’t get infected.”

She sighs but seems to know better than to argue. As they start to head back she stops dead. He turns and sees that she’s looking at the trees. There’s a pair of hawks in them. He looks at her skeptically as she moves forward quietly, touching the side of the tree. He watches the Fingers grow on her as the branches. Twist and knot themselves into a cage around the birds. There’s some meat in there as well. He looks at her skeptically as she comes back to him.

“Tristain wanted the birds,” she says.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, “but she said she’s consider sparing your life if she had them,” he doesn’t like the sound of that, “though I imagine someone will have to take care of them while she’s still proving she’s not here to kill us all.”

Messages would be the most likely reason, but he’s never seen one of these animals carry a message around the Trinity Guard. Falconry is something nobles like a Uther participate in. The Trinity Guard where their wealth in more subtle ways. These birds are impressive though they are smaller than the ones he’s seen Uther using. But given they are for Tristain, he thinks that’s probably for the best. Before there can be more distractions, he focuses on getting them back to the tent to get whatever is left of the poultice. Inside he sees Squirrel still asleep. He grabs the pouch and the bandages and comes back outside.

“Give me your hand,” he says.

She sighs and extends it as he smoothes the herbs over the burn and wraps her hand.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” He asks.

“No,” she says. He gives her a hard look, “I would tell you, now that you’re not on death’s door,” she says, “I’m fine. Better than fine. This is nothing,” she adds, nodding towards her hand.

“What else is wrong?” He asks, not fully believing her words.

“Nothing, I was worried about you,” she admits, “and I’m just relieved you’re back. When they brought you onto the ship and the earth didn’t work and Morgana was there, I was afraid we were too late. Though we thought we were going to have to follow you to the Vatican,” she cringes at the thought. He agrees. He could hold on but what would be left of him is anyone’s guess. Something occurs to her and she pulls her hand back, digging in her pocket, “we were going to pretend to be pilgrims,” she explains, “anyway Guinevere gave me one of her jackets and I used the embroidery thread to fix these,” she says.

It’s his paternoster beads.

She’s fixed the red tassel. They look cleaner than he’s seen them in a long time. Maybe they should look hateful after what has just happened, but the knowledge that they’ve been with her makes them feel safe. She doesn’t hold them out to him, waiting for his reaction. She’s not expecting him to stand up. He stands up and reaches into the hidden pocket in his pants and pulls out her amulet. She looks stunned at the sight of it.

“It kept me sane,” he says, “gave me something to focus on,” he offers it back to her, “thank you.”

She takes it after a moment and he accepts the beads back.

“You knew I was coming, didn’t you? That we wouldn’t let you just be taken by them?” He nods, “good, because when they took me I knew you were going to come after me. Though it was days so I wasn’t sure if you knew—“

“I knew,” he promises.

She glances away and he sees the pink colors her cheeks. When she tucks a piece of her hair behind her ears, a bit of the clay stains her cheek. He can’t stop himself from reaching out and carefully wiping it off. She seems surprised at the touch and he almost asks if he’s done something wrong, but she shakes her head.

“Thank you, it seems wrong to wash it off,” she admits, “I’m not sure why.”

“Here,” he wraps her fingers as best he can with the extra bandages, “it should be dry soon.”

She nods her head, murmuring another thank you. He’s not sure why he rubs his thumb against the tassel of his beads. He has no right to mix the two sides that have destroyed each other, but the beads look right being stained somehow, like they reflect the rightness he’s come to feel about himself.

Pym moves closer and for a long time they sit on the wall and watching the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. I cannot thank you enough for the support. Your feedback is beyond helpful, deeply appreciated and means so much. Onwards!


	76. Tinder: Part 34

She almost thinks it’s all a dream when she wakes up.

But the fact that she wakes up with dry eyes and not from some nightmare tells her it isn’t. Lancelot’s back and alive. They’re both against the rubble of a wall, her head is against his shoulder and his is resting on hers. Thankfully, even though it’s dawn he is not about to ride off into battle. They aren’t even in the church. They’re on the Ash Folk’s island. She realizes they’ve managed to fall asleep outside of the tent. Not only that, they aren’t alone. She looks up to see Bedivere is looking at them, as though best judging how to go about waking them up. When he sees she’s awake, relief shows on his face. She nudges Lancelot and he opens his eyes as well.

“Good morning,” Bedivere says, “I’m sorry to intrude—“ he hesitates and the fact that they are outdoors seems to make his argument moot, “but the other boy is upset his tree has been ruined and—understandably—wants nothing to do with me.”

They get to their feet and she stretches out her neck. In the dawn light Lancelot’s marks do look darker, as do his fingertips. The wound on his stomach is larger than she wishes, but she knows cutting away the damage was the only way. There are still some darker lines fanning out from burns she missed on the surface. Everything else seems completely healed. Including the brand on his skull, though that is more raised. And if she looks at the back of his hands and his face, she can see the faintest marks from the iron net. But nothing like he should have. She’s grateful she bit her tongue during that ritual, if only because of the healing. She glances at the tent and Lancelot shakes his head, following her to where Bors is with his trees.

“Sorry about that,” she says quickly, “I promised Tristain she could have some hawks.”

“But you hurt it!” Bors protests, “it was the strongest one.”

“I can put it back,” she promises, “we just need something for the hawks.”

“But Lancelot—“

“I’m alright,” Lancelot cuts in.

Bors turns and looks at him before running forward and hugging him. Lancelot seems surprised by the gesture, but he returns the embrace. Unfortunately that seems to be the moment Bors remembers his old fear and throws himself back, nearly topping into her. Pym catches his shoulders and helps him right himself before he can careen down the hill and another healer will be needed. Lancelot gives her a somewhat amused look as Bors shoves the hair out of his eyes. Bors inspects him and looks at the tree and then back to him. Then without another word he takes off running back to where the others are.

“Well he seems alright,” Bedivere says.

“I wasn’t expecting him to be here,” Lancelot says.

“I didn’t realize he came,” Pym admits, “Squirrel must have snuck him on at the last moment.”

She understands Bors’ fear better than she understands Squirrel’s bravery, at least where meeting Lancelot is concerned. Though seeing Lancelot meet it with his quiet understanding is different. She remembers them both being lost and upset in their own ways when they met. Now it seems as though Lancelot has found his place, which seems to be some mix of all the places he’s been. It’s fitting, for a man who has been cut up and torn apart like him. That the whole that suits him would be a patchwork of all that he’s done. But there’s a peace to it and to him she may not have thought at first.

“You look better,” Bedivere says.

“I healed,” Lancelot replies, “last night.”

“It makes sense that would sometimes be easier to do that without everyone watching,” Bedivere remarks.

Lancelot inclines his head but doesn’t fully agree or disagree. Pym can see that things are tense between them. She can’t exactly blame Lancelot for that, though the way he is looking and towering over the Priest doesn’t help. It occurs to her that Lancelot has brought people who would probably not be allowed onto the island here. But she imagines the Paladins are a special kind of forbidden. Lancelot hasn’t used any of his abilities in front of Bedivere previously. Whatever is passing between them, she lets it go on for a moment longer until it becomes clear that neither of them have any idea what to say.

”So what were you up so early?” She asks.

“Praying,” Lancelot says when Bedivere looks away, “for the ones I killed.”

“I don’t agree with what they did,” Bedivere cuts in before she has a chance to think too much on the matter, “nor am I sad they’re dead, but they did still die.”

Pym bites her lower lip, not sure if any of them are supposed to say something. She can’t tell him not to do that, though Lancelot probably could. She thinks of the cross branded into Lancelot and forces herself not to think of him being dragged onto the boat, more dead than alive with that horrible knife sticking out of him. She’s not sure those men deserve prayers. At the same time, she knows Lancelot probably didn’t deserve to be cared for the way he was or Tristain spared.

“Wait here,” Lancelot says after a moment. He walks away.

“I think he was speaking to me,” Bedivere says.

“I’ll wait with you,” Pym offers.

He nods. It’s not long before Lancelot comes walking back. Before Pym can say anything, she sees he’s bringing Tristain with him. Squirrel as well, though if she had to guess he went for a Tristain and Squirrel followed. He’s thrown a shirt on as well, though he remains barefoot. Tristain looks around skeptically.

“Let’s go.”

They make their way down to where the ships are. The great one the Paladins had is a wreck, it’s been swept against the shore and tipped, like the sea is spilling out of it. Lancelot looks at it impassively, Tristain seems confused. She’s not sure what anyone else is feeling. Neither is Bedivere. He looks at the two of them and then at the ship.

“You should burn it.”

Pym jumps as Morgana appears behind her. She looks back at the others, half expecting someone to suddenly be injured or bleeding. But all of them are looking at Morgana. It’s kind of like being looked at by the hawks or some other kind of bird of prey. Though Pym knows they aren’t looking at her, it’s not comfortable to turn her back and be in between them and Morgana.

“You know that’s not why we’re here.”

“You still should,” she turns he veiled head, looking very directly at Lancelot, “it will slow them down.”

“She’s right,” Bedivere says.

“Of course I am,” she says, “I put the gold on your ship,” she says, “in my experience, it’s a lot easier to have a resistance or build an army when you can pay people,” she folds her arms and looks at Bedivere, “get on with it.”

“You’re making that difficult,” Pym says. Morgana looks at her.

“Am I not welcome?”

“Of course you are,” Bedivere says and suddenly everyone is looking at him, though he seems far more comfortable in that position, “all are welcome.”

“I’d rather die again,” she says, “I just want to see the ship burn.”

Pym turns away from her and Bedivere flounders for a moment before he takes out his prayer beads. Pym watches out of the corner of her eye as Lancelot and Tristain fold their hands and lower their heads. She hates seeing Lancelot in his old haircut with the cross on his skin. She, Squirrel and Morgana stand there quietly as Bedivere prays aloud and blesses the water and the ship. When he’s done, Lancelot steps across the stones the rest of the way. He glances back at them before touching his hand to the nearest part of the ship. The bright green Flames starts to spread across the hull and over the top, cocooning the ship. There’s smoke but not nearly as much as she was expecting, as if the Fire itself is consuming it.

Except that’s not it, not entirely.

The Fire consumes it, but where the Fire meets the water an odd golden glow flickers. At first she thinks it might be a rock or an odd fish, but another flashes, then another. They don’t just flicker so much as they seem to roll, one after another and another until there’s more than she can count. As the sun rises she could almost think it’s a trick of the light but she knows in her gut that it isn’t. When she looks back, she sees everyone is watching the Fire. She rolls her eyes at herself, forgetting who she’s standing next to.

“They’re beautiful,” Morgana says.

“It is,” Pym agrees, forcing her gaze back towards the Fire. It hurts less to look at, even with the amount there is. Like it’s been tempered, “he’s come a long way.”

“I was talking about the Hidden. They’re beautiful,” Morgana repeats, “I didn’t think they’d look like minnows.”

Something cold slides down her spine and her eyes drag to the gold dots. Now that Morgana has said it, she can see them. Like her words have given her eyes some kind of permission they lacked. Which is ridiculous. She’s never seen them. She’s not that kind of Fey. The strongest see the Hidden, the kind that are born with strength that she doesn’t have. Not to mention after what her uncle did, embarrassing the High Summoner, her family had offended the Hidden. Why on earth would they appear to her. She manages a strained sound when she tries to laugh. Some sound she hasn’t made since she got dragged in front of Guinevere and told that if the Ale went bad she was going to be thrown overboard.

“That’s just the light,” she says.

Morgana is veiled but she doesn’t need to see her face to know the look she’s getting. Pym doesn’t want to talk about whether or not the Hidden have decided to appear to her. She’s been able to use her magic to get to Lancelot quicker, Bors has been able to use his to grow things to help him heal. They shouldn’t be able to do any of those things, not this far from their home. Even if that home has been burned to the ground. She knows the Hidden are here, even though they probably should have gone to Avalon. Maybe they did, Morgana being here makes the case that some things can go between this world and that one. Some, not all. Who is she to say who can and cannot do it. Regardless it doesn’t matter. The ship finally sighs and falls into the water, underneath she can see it continue to burn. The green shines up through the gold that continues to twist around the wreckage.

“Still?”

“Yes!”

It comes out louder than she intended and they all look at her. She feels strange with all the focus and goes to turn but Morgana appears in front of her. Then again. Like it’s a game. Pym feels her frustration build. She has no ability to see the Hidden, no business being in whatever game Morgana is playing. Maybe Morgana is here to take her and instead of being away, her lack of presence in Merlin’s vision is because she’s dead. The thought didn’t really occur to her, but she’s pushed it out of her mind for other things. She’s become a half decent healer, shouldn’t that be enough?

“Would you stop?” She asks Morgana after she’s managed to turn in a circle and had her appear at every angle, “if I say I see them will you let me go? Or are you here to take me?”

“Morgana.”

She almost feels annoyed at Lancelot’s intervention, but she knows that’s a stupid thing to feel. Morgana folds her arms and she feels the warmth that accompanies Lancelot as he stands much closer, as though daring Morgana to intervene. Given Morgana appearing to those who are about to die, it’s not a contest she wants to witness. What she’s not expecting is Tristain to come to her other side. She’s the one Morgana swings to and there’s nothing but defiance on the Ash Frey’s face.

“Finally out of your chains?” Morgana asks.

“Shouldn’t you be in Avalon?”

“Shouldn’t you be in a cell?”

Pym takes the opportunity to sidestep out of the argument. She doesn’t know why her face feels hot. It has nothing to do with Lancelot, for once. It has everything to do with the Hidden and Morgana’s ability to turn her head towards a prophecy she hasn’t even told her about. The Pendragon siblings seem to have a knack for pushing her thoughts past the denial she’s very happy to step in.

“Why did you ask if she was here to take you?” Lancelot asks.

“Oh, some stupid thing Merlin said,” she says with a wave of her hand, “did you see the gold lights?”

“No,” he says, “what stupid thing?”

There’s an edge to his voice that brings up something she thinks might be guilt. It isn’t a secret, not really. Not in any way that matters. She barely even knows if she believes it or if it’s true. And she knows that between him remembering and the fighting and being kidnapped, there hasn’t been time to say that there’s some insane thing Merlin’s been rambling about. Or that’s what she tells herself. The squirming inside her makes her feel like she lied.

“Merlin said that he saw a golden city,” she says, “that if he made it come to pass, he could be with Nimue. He said everyone was there, he saw you all,” she doesn’t know why she hesitates, “except me.”

Lancelot is silent and it’s the second time today when it’s felt like she can’t read him.

“When?”

“When what?”

“When did he say this?”

She cringes.

“When we were detoxing him?” She says and hates how her words come out as something more like a guilty question than a statement.

“That was weeks ago,” Lancelot says.

“I know,” she sighs. He keeps looking at her, she can see the mix of confusion and something else. She thinks there hurt on his face, “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret, it could just be him rambling. I don’t know, it hasn’t been as important—“

“It is,” he says, cutting her off. Frustration makes even his new features look more like his old ones. It makes him look more like he was a long time ago and Pym feels a wave of self loathing for putting him back there, “it’s important,” he says.

“It’s just a stupid thing he saw,” she says, “it’s nothing.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

She doesn’t really have a good answer for that. Reminding him of everything seems like the wrong thing to do. All of this seems wrong. She doesn’t know what possesses her to shove her hands in her pockets. Or to take a step back. Maybe because of what’s gone on in the cellar, it feels like some kind of lie. Like she’s done something wrong.

“I need to go check on Bors and the others,” she says, seeing his fingers come forward. She takes another step back, “make sure Morgana and Tristain don’t kill each other.”

And for reasons she can’t put into words, she flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To answer the question about chocolate, you will see. This is a fictional universe so on the fey side at least things are a little different. To the person who tried to answer, thank you for taking a stab at it. I removed your review because I don’t want anyone to get confused.
> 
> Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages! Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter and I will see you in the next one!


	77. Tinder: Part 35

“Did you know about Merlin’s vision?” He asks Squirrel.

“You mean the great adventure I’m gonna go on?” Squirrel shrugs, “it seems like a good guess. That’s what Knights do.”

He’s surprised she’s told no-one, then immediately realizes how foolish that is. Of course she’s told no-one. It’s Pym. She pushes everything aside or down until there is no other option, especially things that trouble her. Watching her run away stings more than he wants to admit. It reminds him of the weeks after Nimue, when she would flee from every conversation or touch, as if being near him or Squirrel was painful. She’s hidden this better, but the fact that she’s felt the need to hide it at all is troubling. Squirrel looks up at him.

“Did he have a different one?”

“Yes,” he says.

“About what?” He glances down at Squirrel who rolls his eyes, “you can’t tell me,” he says, folding his arms.

Lancelot would smile if it didn’t feel like there was a weight on his chest. He wants to go back to Morgana and demand she take him to Merlin so he can shake the answers out of the Druid. Or go back to the temple and question the whispers. He needs details or something, some compass point in the direction he needs to to go so he can murder whoever contributes to the future that does not involve her. Perhaps its the world that needs to be burned down. He finds he doesn’t quite have as much of a problem with that as he should.

“Merlin saw a vision of all of us in some great city,” he says, “except Pym wasn’t there.”

Squirrel glances at him but Lancelot finds his gaze keeps dragging to where Pym is supposed to be. She’s not there, apparently she and Bors went to see the horses. And though he wants to follow her, it feels as though his presence wouldn’t be welcome. He also doesn’t know what to say. And saying the wrong thing now seems like it will do more harm to the situation. He’s no fool, he knows that the saying the wrong thing now will just push her away. He doesn’t want that. Selfishly, perhaps, but after holding on to the knowledge that she was coming, he isn’t sure if he can stand the idea of her not being able to look at him again. He forces his gaze back to Squirrel who seems far less concerned than he was expecting. He doesn’t want to worry him but he also wants to know why.

“You don’t seem afraid.”

“Merlin didn’t know about Nimue,” Squirrel points out, “if he’s been having visions wouldn’t that have shown up?”

It’s a logical answer. Practical. Something like Pym might say if it was anyone else. But the fact that she has said nothing concerns him. It’s a bigger deal to her than she wants to let on. As if it is fathomable that any of them will allow that to be the future. They have dropped everything to run after him, surely she knows they would do the same for her. When she got taken, everyone would have gone after her if he had given them a chance. He had not considered if there would be ramifications to charging after her. He just knew that he could track better and was faster than bringing everyone, he knew that she was leaving a trail for him to follow.

Lancelot knew he had to get to her, he didn’t care about anything else.

“Why do you look worried?” Squirrel asks and then makes a noise of disgust, “are you two fighting again? What happened when you snuck off?”

“We don’t fight,” Lancelot corrects.

“Sure you do,” Squirrel says, “or you,” he pitches his voice up, “”don’t want the same things’,” he wrinkles his nose, “whatever that means.”

“That wasn’t a fight,” Lancelot says, “and you shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

“Then I wouldn’t know anything,” Squirrel retorts, “it’s not like you say anything interesting anyway. It’s like listening to my parents.”

Squirrel seems like exactly the type to eavesdrop on his parents, Lancelot isn’t sure why he’s surprised. Maybe it’s more him saying that he and Pym sound like his parents that catches him off guard. It makes him think of Guinevere’s warning, of what them sleeping next to each other could do to Pym’s reputation and chances of marriage. He’s not a monk anymore, even if he’s been tonsured again. He doesn’t follow those beliefs. He didn’t take this willingly, not this time. He’s not sure how willing he actually was the first time or if he had just been twisted into thinking he was. But this time the cut and brand was forced upon him. The vows he’s willingly taken are as an Ash Fey. And as a Squire. But he knows his life no longer belongs to the Church. He can’t see that it ever will again.

“I wouldn’t be worried,” Squirrel says, “you’re back and Pym’s got us. We’ll keep her safe.”

Lancelot wonders if the worry shows on his face. Or if Squirrel is just good at reading him at this point. He hears the boy’s voice tighten when he says that he’s back. Like he needs reminding of the fact.

“Did I scare you, not being there?”

“Only a little,” Squirrel says, “Gawain looked after me and Pym tried, but she was really worried. We were going to pretend to be pilgrims so Bedivere was teaching her how to pray,” Squirrel looks up, “I stayed close! Like I promised.”

“You were going to pretend as well?”

“Of course I was,” Squirrel says, “I promised to stay close,” he glances at his feet and looks embarrassed, “besides I wanted to save you from the Paladins for once,” he looks up at him, “but you saved yourself which was way more amazing.”

Lancelot glances away, he doesn’t know if that’s true. If not for Arthur and Morgana he may have drowned before he saw any of them again. But that’s been true of every time he’s done this. There has always been another there, whether they turned to be friend or foe. He has never gone through these moments alone.

“Come with me,” he says. Squirrel obediently walks with him as he leads him to one of the houses. The blood is much more than he remembers bleeding, though the ease at which he was knocked out makes far more sense. Now that he isn’t being lead there to potentially die, he can see the pattern of his marks carved in several places, “this is where I grew up.”

“Wow!” Squirrel says, looking around, “here? How do you know?”

“The Paladins brought me here,” he says.

“Is that your blood?” Squirrel asks, looking at the mess, “ugh! Good thing Bors was here,” he bounces from that to deeper in the house, “hey that looks like your Mark,” he says, pointing at one of the carvings.

“It is,” Lancelot says.

“Are you remembering more?” Squirrel asks. Lancelot nods, “anything good?” He shrugs, “do you want to try that thing you had me do here? Where you and me close my eyes and imagine myself back home?”

Lancelot hesitates before he nods. So many horrible things have happened in the past few days, surely one more cannot hurt. Squirrel sits cross legged and Lancelot faces him. It feels strange to sit on a place he knew he did as a boy, but not in the same way that entering the Church did. The smell that lingers here is old and the wind has swept it away, it isn’t the same. Squirrel looks at him as Lancelot returns the gaze.

“You had me close my eyes,” he points out. He realizes Squirrel means to lead what they’re about to do and obediently closes his eyes, telling himself that it’s not going to work. He can at least try, “take a deep breath,” Squirrel instructs. Lancelot obeys, “think about waking up.”

Lancelot presses his lips together, wondering what strange thing has made him think of that instead of entering the house. His mind goes to waking up, the half remembered memory of the figure of his mother pressing her finger to the stone and winking at him across the flames. He remembers the feel of the affection more than anything else. Though some part of him shies away from the memory, he holds himself there. Laying under the blankets and watching her straighten up, her black stained fingers swinging by her sides as she checked on everyone before coming to him, dropping down. In his memory, he clamps his eyes shut.

“Think of the smells,” Squirrel’s voice floats to him and he pushes it out, straining with his younger self to opening his eyes as he feels his mother push her fingers through his hair.

“You’re coddling him,” a new voice comes, deeper but there’s no malice in it.

“Hush,” she says, not moving her hand, “he’s fine. He’ll join you after.”

There’s a sigh and he can hear the door closing. He feels relief through every fiber of his being at that time, even if as a man he feels dread. He hears her shift and her fingers trace his marks lightly. He wrinkles his nose and immediately smoothes it out. He’s pretending to be asleep, he realizes.

“Lancelot, you’re going to have to learn to shoot eventually,” she says, “he so wants you to come with him.”

“I will!” He hears himself saying and when he opens his eyes, the light makes it impossible to see her. Lancelot feels his frustration grow, “I just need more practice.”

The light eases. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. In his memory she’s very beautiful, with hair that matches his own. It spills down her shoulders in waves. He can pick out his features in her face, the same strong jaw and full lips, the shape of her eyes and sharp set of her cheekbones. He looks like her, even if their eyes are different colors. More importantly, it’s a more elaborate version of his own marks that paint her face. Though now both are as dark. He doesn’t know why it matters so much that they look the same. She sets her chin on her hand and smiles affectionately at him. There’s no anger like he’s felt in the past decades, just the affection a child should feel for their parents. It makes the betrayal worse somehow.

“Are you close?” She asks.

“Yes,” he says, “very close. Soon I’ll be able to do it with one strike, so none of them suffer—just like you taught us.”

She smiles wider and there’s pride in her eyes. She holds up her hand and he presses his palm to hers. He feels her Fire, the dark and tempered flame. And he feels the bright uncontrollable one he’s capable of rush to meet it. Their hands erupt in light, but she controls it. Twists it. It’s their secret way of commenting their promises to one another and Lancelot knows it means the world. Her Marks reflect the light. After a moment she pulls her flames back and his own seem to fall dormant.

“Go practice,” she says, nodding to the door, “watch for my signal, I’ll tell you when I’m heading to the Temple. Are you going to help me with the prayers?”

He nods. He knows that soon he’ll be a man and he probably won’t be allowed to help. She’ll have to choose some girl from the village. Or change the rules. He desperately hopes it’s the latter, his mom is very forward thinking. She can do anything. That’s why she’s the one in charge after all. He rolls out of bed and grabs his bow.

“Elaine!”

She turns toward the call of her name. That’s her name. He remembers her name. In his memory he heads for the door, even as the rest of him screams at the younger version to stay. Just for a moment. But he’s turning away. Past the pile of blankets he can see stirring at the commotion.

“Lancelot,” he whips towards her. She smiles, “take Hector with you.”

Lancelot’s eyes snap open. Squirrel is standing over his shoulder, shaking it. Lancelot can feel the sweat on his brow and he heart pounding. Elaine. He remembers his mother’s name and her face. Nauseatingly he can smell her. He doesn’t want to think about why. He gets to his feet. Squirrel looks at him nervously and Lancelot turns. He knows Squirrel will follow him. He feels sick as he moves down the path. He knows where it happened. He knows even though the smell should be gone. It should be but it’s woven into the grass, deep in the dirt.

“What are you looking for?” Squirrel asks.

Lancelot tries to smell, tries to remember, but it’s lost to the knot of panic. What if one of those gold masked men he burned was Hector? He has to remind himself that he could not smell them. He knows what other Ash Folk smell like, thanks to Tristain. He thinks of her disdain for him and pushes himself up, motioning to Squirrel as they set off. Morgana and Tristain are still squabbling and Bedivere is nearby, seemingly at a loss.

“Were there others?” He questions, walking to Tristain and Bedivere, “were there other Ash Folk?” There’s no response. He looks at Bedivere, “did they take anyone else?” He demands and the tone in his voice makes everyone stop.

“No,” Tristain says.

“I never heard of anyone else,” Bedivere offers, “why?”

“There were other Fey.”

He turns at the sight of Pym. Bors is standing besides her. Despite what transpired earlier and how afraid the others look, she meets his gaze. He forces himself to take a deep breath and focus. It’s easier to focus on his scent than anything else. It brings his mind back to the fear that it may not be there. What would it cost to ensure that doesn’t happen? He wants to press her on the other Fey she’s talking about, if there were rumors or if they were real. Is there a chance more Ash Folk survived? But the fear of what Merlin saw, what she thinks it means, turns over in his head like a sound drowning out the other noise. What would he do it keep it from happening. And the answer comes easily.

Anything.

He would do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got told there is a tweet party happening on using the tag renewcursed. People are tweeting to try and get the show renewed. If you want to join into the tweet party for getting the show renewed that’s happening the 23/24th of October. Feel free to tweet about my fic if you want to participate but aren’t sure what to say.
> 
> As always I remind you feedback is love! I’m so humbled by everyone whose reading this fic and taking time to comment/kudos/message me or just enjoys the fic. Let me know your thoughts! See you next chapter!


	78. Tinder: Part 36

“We need to return,” Arthur says, almost regretfully, “if you want to return to this place, we can arrange that, but right now—“ he glances at the horizon, “it’s not a good idea to linger here,” he looks at Lancelot, “I’m sorry.”

Lancelot nods and walks back to the village. Arthur looks at her apologetically but she smiles at him. They all know that he’s right. They can’t linger here, even though she thinks that Lancelot could spend much more time here. Tristain too. Maybe they all could. But there will be time for that, for this, once they have a place to call their own. They didn’t stay in this world instead of going to Avalon to hide in an island. Maybe one day but today they have to set off again. Pym trails him back to the village, unsure if he is going to the temple or somewhere else. She finds him in the ruins of a house with a wide stain in front, it doesn’t take much guesswork to figure out what that is.

“I’m sorry for not telling you,” she says, “it didn’t seem that important and I—I didn’t want to think about it.”

He glances back at her and she wonders if she’s made a mess of things or if it’s inappropriate to bring this up now. Maybe he has other things he needs to think about. Something about leaving the island being at odds with him doesn’t feel right though. Even if far worse things have happened here. She remembers them disagreeing and wonders if he feels the same before immediately chiding herself. It’s selfish, of course it’s selfish. There are dozens of more important things going on and worse things happening. Especially after whatever transpired to get him in such a state. She hasn’t seen him like that since they were in the tent and her remembered what Father Carden and the Ash Folk did to him as a boy.

“You should have,” he says.

There’s a tone in his voice she doesn’t like, one that speaks of the man he used to be. She reminds herself where they are, what’s just happened. How terrible it was to discover he was gone after their disagreement. But it’s a tone she doesn’t like. One that speaks less of hurt and more of someone who is used to being informed. Even if the logical part of her says that they have shared everything with each other, more willingly than she would have expected, some illogical part of her rankles at it. At the expectation it seems to carry, the frustration at her. Like she’s disobeyed something.

“We were busy,” she replies.

“Busy with me,” he corrects, though there’s no tone to it then. She wonders if she’s imagined the previous one, “you should have said something.”

“Merlin’s stupid vision doesn’t compare to what happened with you,” she says, folding her arms, “who knows what he saw. It could be nothing. He could have misinterpreted—“ he raises his eyebrows and she rolls her eyes, “I don’t know. Those visions never mean what you think they do, that’s why they’re ridiculous.” 

She’s never been one for things like that. Maybe it’s some childish part of her that believes what everyone said about her family when her uncle shamed the High Summoner and her daughter. Nimue was always beloved by the Hidden. Pym was always told that they did not like to be forgotten or disrespected and somehow her family had managed to do both. What could they want with her except to punish her? It was better to keep those kinds of things like visions and golden lights away. Safer. Though safety never was Pym’s real concern.

“It’s not a comparison,” he says.

“We were busy,” she repeats.

“You cannot push things aside,” he says and she swears that tone is back.

Shame curls through her at the memory of her grief and her actions, but she still raises her chin.

“I’m not,” she says.

“You are.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She snaps.

They both seem surprised at her tone, apparently they are both regressing today. She wishes she could say her fear of him eclipsed her anger, but back then they both mixed together. Now it’s just anger. Instinctively she knows that there’s nothing she could do that would make him hurt her. Which makes not telling him feel a lot closer to lying than she wishes it did. She doesn’t know why the sound of him telling her what to do in this situation digs at her. They’ve been in so many others where he’s directed her and she’s followed without a second thought. Or she’s asked him for information and he’s given it or explained. He doesn’t immediately apologize. She isn’t sure if she’s in the wrong or he is, but she doesn’t know if she would believe it.

“I thought you told me everything after you talked about your grief,” he says. He hesitates, “why not this?”

He seems confused and she doesn’t blame him. It does feel more and more like running away from her grief. Worse, it speaks to the knots that her stomach has been tied into since he rode away, since he knelt before Tristain—maybe even all the way back on that pier when he froze and the fear of the Paladins was not enough to stop her from running back for him. She doesn’t know. But the connection starts to form more clearly as she stands there wrestling with his question. He seems to realize asking again his overstepping some line she’s drawn. She sees that impassive mask start to settle across his face.

“I didn’t want it to be real?” She offers, “I don’t know, the idea of being the only one who wasn’t there felt wrong. Talking about it felt like it was making it real,” she tries to smile, “besides I’d feel bad if Guinevere found out and tried to kill Merlin.”

He doesn’t return the gesture and she feels the smile die on her lips.

“I wouldn’t let it happen,” he says abruptly, “none of us would.”

“But if it’s right, I don’t want anyone being hurt because of me,” she says.

“I haven’t been,” he points out simply, the confidence in his skill making a not unpleasant shiver go down her spine, “I wouldn’t want to be in whatever vision he’s having.”

The intensity of his look draws her in, but not in the way the other one made her chafe. This one is more. More intense, more earnest, she’s not sure if there is even a name for it. She thinks of the trees cracking, the green fire, how many Paladins and Trinity Guards who wanted to hurt her now lay as dust on the forest floor. All to keep her safe. She can’t even say her and Squirrel, not if she counts the ones who kidnapped her. It’s just her. Which is insane, she has no place having so many people killed to keep her safe.

“I don’t think it’s up to you,” she says quietly. He almost looks alarmed, “I don’t think it’s up to anyone,” she stresses, “it’s like Nimue,” she feels her face grow hot. The suggestion that she has anything close to the destiny imbue does is preposterous, “not that I think I’m anything like that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says.

She nods. It doesn’t. Whatever reason Merlin had that vision or whether or not it’ll come to pass, it doesn’t matter. They cannot change something like that. No more than she could’ve made her uncle stay or kept Nimue here. Destiny will come for them all, whether they want it to happen or not.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to distract from what was going on with you,” she says, “we can’t do anything about Merlin’s vision but you and Merlin, there are things we could do to help you.”

He considers her words for a moment before he speaks again. The confusion is naked in his voice, but maybe for the first time there’s hurt in there too.

“Why do you think I couldn’t help you?”

The question seems to take the breath from her lungs. It’s not a question she’s sure she knows how to answer. They have gone through so much together, he’s saved her life from every kind of external threat. She’s just not sure if he or anyone know how to deal with the internal kind. Besides, what are those compared to things like the forces they all have to deal with on the outside?

“It’s not that,” she starts but the lingering guilt cuts her, “that would be like me trying to win a fight right now,” she says, “or something like that. You’d be better at learning that than I would be at learning how to fight like you do.” He doesn’t seem offended or hurt. He seems to know that she has a point, “it’s not a bad thing you haven’t exactly had the kind of life where your feelings were something you dealt with.”

He softens but doesn’t smile. No sarcasm falls from his lips. If anything he looks disappointed, or like he’s had some realization. They’re in the middle of a war. And even if they weren’t, she doesn’t know how that would even begin to look. Lancelot is just figuring out what he wants. How to be someone outside of the brainwashing and torture. It’s odd to see the emotions on his face when he looks so much like he did when they first met. Perhaps that’s why her mind keeps dragging back to that time.

“Then what is it?” He asks.

“I don’t—“ she stops, she could say she didn’t want to tell him. He would drop it if she asked. But he wouldn’t fully understand. She’s become used to being on the same page as him, in so many things. This feels like that page is ripping and she cannot stand making another tear in it, “I was afraid talking about it would make it real,” she says, “I guess the idea of the world where I don’t see you or Squirrel scares me. Which is silly.”

“Why?”

“Well soon you’ll be riding off on your own adventures. Hopefully safer than the ones we’re on,” she says, “once Gawain became a Knight we barely saw him. He had other duties.”

Surprise crosses his face and she wonders if he hadn’t considered that. It’s been lurking in the back of her head, though she knows if they survive long enough for him to become a Knight and Squirrel to go off on his adventures, they’ll be lucky. It’s that same feeling like when she was presented with the choice of going to Avalon. It makes her long for those awful first days when they were new to each other and the only things they had to look out for were themselves and the horses. She wants to go back to the person she was back then and tell her to savor the good parts of those days. No matter how silly the idea is at the time.

“Anyway,” she says, “I thought if we were all in the city in that vision together, maybe we all saw each other more often,” she continues, “but who knows, that’s not something we should worry about right now anyway.”

“But you are.”

She cringes.

“After what just happened, how could I not be?” She says.

His brows draw together and he takes a step forward.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says. She tries to hold his gaze but falters, glancing around the ruins. Even as she hears him come closer. She isn’t sure if he’s gotten warmer or if she’s just acutely aware of where he is now, “I want to help.”

“I know,” she says.

“I don’t care about a destiny that doesn’t include you and Squirrel,” he says.

“Nimue—“

“I’m not going to choose any destiny over you.”

It’s a selfish, horrible thing to think but she would be lying if it hadn’t crossed her mind. She half expects the whispers to come back and scream at them both until there’s nothing but their bones here. She’s not ready for how close he is when she looks back at him. His marks really are much darker than she thought. Instead of reflecting the sun, it seems like they absorb it.

“That’s a foolish thing to say,” she starts.

“I don’t think we have destiny’s that don’t involve each other.”

She’s quite certain that she had more to say but he’s peculiarly close and for some reason she can’t remember her train of thought. She can just look up at him. She thinks she should feel afraid, but she doesn’t. She feels something. It feels more like she’s swallowed those golden minnows or the Fey Fire, like there’s something living inside her throwing off heat.

“I don’t like thinking about destiny,” she says, and her voice doesn’t sound like she’s ever heard it.

“I don’t think we have lives without each other,” he says.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she gets out.

“I believe it.”

Her mouth goes dry at how he can simplify things that way. No matter what she feels about destiny, she knows that Lancelot believes things with his entire heart and soul. He doesn’t believe in half measures. Not when it comes to his beliefs. She’s used to it being about his faith. But he says it about them being in each other’s lives with the same firmness. She’s keenly aware of the prayer beads he has, how even his early beliefs he hasn’t given up on. The thought that devotion translates to this, to them, it makes her feel some combination of terror and excitement. All at the same time.

She feels quite helpless to do anything but look at him.

He returns her gaze just as intently. They’ve had moments like this before, but there’s always been someone to break them up. Or one of them has turned away. Doing that has always been more relieving than disappointing. As it stretches, she realizes she doesn’t want it to end. That the disappointment when it does will outweigh whatever the strange feeling is. Lancelot seems equally at a loss for whatever is going on. But neither of them moves from it.

“Do you?” He asks after a moment.

It takes her mind a moment to remember what he’s saying he believes in, but then she nods.

“I don’t know how to believe like you,” she admits. That kind of faith has always scared her until now.

He nods, though the gesture doesn’t break their gaze. She knows they have to, one of them has to. But she can’t make herself do it. The idea of someone coming in and finding them like this is—not something she finds she cares about. She actually finds she doesn’t care about anything. Not so long as the feeling can keep going. Even as she feels like it’s building to something.

“I can teach you to fight,” he says and his voice takes on that hoarse edge.

“I can tell you when I’m bothered,” she says.

He nods.

“If you want.”

“I do—“ she says, suddenly finding it difficult to make her throat work, “I don’t want to hide things from you.”

He nods again and she knows he believes her.

She finds she feels the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments/kudos/reviews/tumblr mentions etc. Your feedback is so amazing and so important to me. Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter. Onwards!


	79. Tinder: Part 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning: there is a discussion about Lancelot being made to self-flagellate (whip himself). It's very non-graphic and nothing we haven't covered before, but for those who skipped the captivity chapters and didn't see the Tumblr recap I just wanted to make sure you knew what was happening.

It hurts to see the island slip away.

Lancelot watches it as the boat heads out. He reminds himself of how different things are now. He’s not leaving this place a scared boy, surrounded by those who would do him harm. He’s leaving it as a man surrounded by those he loves. The people who have died here are long since passed into the Twilight. Their scent doesn’t lay heavy in the air, the smoke doesn’t blanket the island like it used to. It’s alright to leave, he has the freedom to come back.

He’s free.

“I’m sorry to rush us off,” Arthur says, joining him on the deck.

“You were right,” he says, “we need to return,” Arthur nods, “I’ll explain what happened to her, you won’t be in trouble with Guinevere.”

“Of course I will,” Arthur says, “I don’t know what I’d do if I wasn’t.”

It’s a joke but he can see the strain on him. Lancelot knows the thought of another Ash Folk, someone he is related to, being out there in the world is crippling to him. He can’t imagine what he would do if he saw him again. Despite her vast power, Morgana is on the ship with them. She claims not to trust they’ll make it back without getting into trouble, he understands she has a point. He imagines it’s easy and difficult for Arthur to have her back. He doesn’t envy him for being in the middle of such an emotional storm. The physical storms are easier to understand sometimes.

“You won’t be in trouble alone,” he amends.

Arthur smiles at that.

“Well, that’s a comfort,” he says and on anyone else it might sound insincere. But Lancelot knows he means every word, “but maybe we should have Goliath waiting, just in case.”

Lancelot smiles, he can see the logic in that. It’s certainly not the worst idea. They lapse into a comfortable silence, one that Lancelot never thought he would share with a man who he had tried to kill. The only clothes he has are the ones the Paladins dressed him in and it’s more comforting to be in them than he wishes it was. Pym has fixed the seams and buckles with a whisper of her magic. The weight of them is familiar. He feels like himself. He also doesn’t feel cold as they head further out to sea. He’s pulled his hair as much as he can over the brand on his skull and can only hope the hair will fill it in quickly. The last time the cross was cut into his scalp, this time it’s been branded. He isn’t sure of what that will do.

It makes his back itch.

He supposes it was just a matter of time before it returned. He know that his back is healed, he knows the itch never really went away. But he feels it again, lurking under his skin. He can’t tell if what he did makes it worse or if that’s in his head. He knows he didn’t want to do it, no part of him desired that. But he knows that he did it all the same. Does his skin know the difference? The reason? He isn’t sure. The itch seems to grow sharper, more urgent. Worse, he can feel it on his scalp too. Like his body aches for what they did to him. He would focus on the island but seeing that makes something much deeper in him ache.

“I need to speak to Pym,” he says.

He finds her making sure Bors and Squirrel aren’t seasick. It’s easier to do that on the deck. She looks over at him as he walks to them. Something must show on his face. His old clothes make Bors look afraid for a moment but he recovers faster, tugging at Squirrel to follow him. He looks around and can see they are more or less alone but people are still too close. Pym seems to realize the same thing and leads him away, into the cabins above the deck. They’re more opulent than he’s been in, more like what he would imagine a merchant ship would be. She closes the door and looks at him.

  
“What is it?” she asks.

“My back,” her gaze softens. She must know, she saw it and healed it, “I did it to slow them down,” he says, “I didn’t want to do it,” he doesn’t know how to say what he’s trying to, “it’s back, it’s—worse.”

“Take your cloak off,” she says.

He obeys, lowering himself down to his knees. She walks behind him and pulls back the collar of his shirt, looking at the marks. She digs her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and he nearly collapses with the relief of it. The itch eases as viciously as it came. He’s hyperaware of the hateful symbol branded onto his scalp and how close her breath comes to it. But he focuses entirely on the feeling of her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders and back.

“What else did they do?” She asks.

“The brand and the tonsure,” he says, “they helped me with the whipping. The nets. The knife,” he recites, “and they drugged me,” he fights a noise as she digs into the top of the old scar Father Carden gave him, “they wanted me to look as I did.”

“You don’t,” she cuts in, “not to anyone who knows you.”

“They didn’t,” he says, “they didn’t know me,” he says, “it was just to look like the Weeping Monk.”

“You say that like it’s a different person,” she says.

“To them, it is,” he says.

She’s silent for a moment before she comes in front of him. At this angle he has to look up to see her. She looks down at him with no pity or fear, maybe just the slightest bit of sadness for what he’s gone through. Mostly with determination. She sits down in front of him and holds her hand out.

“Give me the hand you use,” she says.

He puts it in hers and she digs her thumbs into the heel of it. He’s surprised at how it feels. He’s back is what aches but the muscles in his arm and shoulder seem to relax as she does it.

“Give me your other hand,” she says. He looks at her, “I know you’re good with using both.”

She does the other as well. He feels more balanced out after. He wasn’t expecting that. It feels more like he can breathe. The itch of his back is a more manageable thing now. He can worry about his scalp later.

“Better?”

“Thank you,” he says. She nods. Before she can fully drop his hand he turns it and catches hers, “how’s your hand?”

“It’s itchy but alright,” he looks at her, “actually itchy,” she adds, “it’s scabbing.”

He looks down at her hands and sees for the first time that her fingertips are discolored. His fingertips are stained dark from the clay. Hers are a lighter wash, but stained none the less. She’s marked by his Folk. He doesn’t know if that is wrong to her, he almost feels worry at the idea that it is. His eyes drag from her fingertips to her face.

“You’ve been marked,” he says.

“I know,” she dips her head, “I hope that’s alright with you—“

“Of course it is,” he cuts in.

“Alright,” she says.

“Are you alright with it?”

“Oh,” she says, “yes. I mean, it seems like we’re all one Folk now right?” He nods, oddly relieved that she’s alright with it, “do you feel sea sick?”

“No,” he says, “you?”

“No,” she replies, “I’ve been on a boat more these past few months than I ever thought I would be. But this might be the nicest one.”

He follows her gaze around the room. It’s certainly the most opulent. It reminds him of Uther’s and the Pope’s tents, the great cathedrals he’s seen a handful of times. They must have stolen a merchant ship to come and get him. The ones who took Pym burned Guinevere’s original boats. Though knowing her, he imagines it was no great hardship to take this one. The Paladins have a presence where they’re going, but more of a navy would be helpful if they are to take the land and defeat Uther.

He gets to his feet and extends his hand, helping her up. He realizes for the first time that she’s also in her old dress, the one he first saw her in. He’s grown almost accustom to seeing her in Guinevere’s borrowed clothes. They’ve all been hastily repaired by Pym’s magic and cleaned as best as possible, but the smell of their adventures lingers on both of them. They both look worse for the wear, he supposes, but also very much like themselves.

“Did anyone sleep in this room?” He asks.

“I don’t think so,” she says, “I wasn’t really paying attention,” he frowns in confusion, “I was more concerned with rescuing you and making sure Squirrel was near.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Not well,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, “Bedivere kept an eye on me.”

That surprises him. He had asked him to make sure that Tristain got her confession. Hopefully to help turn her to their side He hadn’t asked anyone to look after Pym, he certainly hadn’t expected that Bedivere would go out of his way to do it while they rushed to save him. A part of him wants to forgive, to finally have the bond that the Church forbade them to have. The rest of him remembers the brand pressed into his skull and knows that only a fool would blindly forgive. He accepted kindness from Father Carden and will pay for that for the rest of his life.

“I don’t trust him,” he says.

“I don’t either,” she replies, “I think he’s on our side, but I don’t trust him fully,” he looks at her curiously, “I didn’t trust you for a long time,” she points out.

He nods at the practicality of it, relieved they seem to be on the same page about it. They cannot make the mistake the Moon Wings did of trusting every member of the Church because of how things worked out with one. He trusts Bedivere more than she probably trusted him in the beginning, but it’s still wise to be careful. With him and with Tristain. The smartest of them will be careful with him as well when he returns. He knows where his loyalties lay, but he cannot blame anyone for being suspicious. Especially now that he looks so much like he did before. His fingers brush against the brand, half hidden by his hair but when he feels the small ridge he snatches it back. It feels like the brand is still hot, he half expects his fingertips to be burned. But they are just their usual darkened color, though that will take some getting used to.

“Arthur did too,” her face turns almost deadly serious, if not for the smile she has to fight, “but I think he can be trusted.”

He glances away, disarmed by her humor. As usual. Arthur can be trusted. Of all the fantastical things in this world, the things he’s seen and been a part of, finding a truly good man among all of this violence might be the most unbelievable. He’s not sure he believes it, but time and again Arthur rises to the occasion and proves the sword has chosen correctly. Once again. Or perhaps it simply chose Nimue and she was smart enough to recognize the strength of Arthur’s heart and lend it to him. He still cannot believe that it was Arthur who threw himself off the boat for him, who pulled him out of the depths. Not too long ago he remembers them trying very hard to kill each other. Of all the people who could understand him, a man blood like that is not what he was expecting.

“I guess we need to save him from Guinevere,” he says.

“Oh that’s right,” Pym says, “she’s going to kill him. Wait, come with me.”

She grabs his hand and yanks him out of the room before he can ask which of those he is supposed to do. But she leaves him on the deck and runs below. When she comes back up, she has his swords tucked under her arm. He’s not surprised to see them, he threw them off after all. But he’s surprised that they’ve been given to her. The mud he dropped them into has been meticulously cleaned off and they look as though they’ve been treated and cleaned.

“Squirrel and Gawain cleaned everything,” she says, “so it would be ready for you.”

“Thank you,” he says, taking them from her.

The weight of them is wonderfully familiar. The blades were made for his hands and his hands alone. All the evil they’ve done and holding them still feels as though he has a limb back. Perhaps because of all the evil that he’s done. Doing good is the only thing they can do. The only chance that they have. He would no more cast the blades off than he would leave Goliath behind. He puts them on and feels even more like himself.

“Do you feel better?” She asks.

“I feel like myself," he admits, "Do you?” He asks, "feel better?"

She laughs and nods and something in him relaxes at the sound.

“Actually, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments, kudos, messages, they are all so wonderfully appreciated. Please let me know your thoughts! Onwards!


	80. Tinder: Part 38

It’s the first night with no drugged sleep for any of them.

Pym knew that when Lancelot came back it would not be easy, but as she told herself during their time apart as long as he came back, they could figure the rest out. But now that it’s nightfall, she’s concerned. They all saw him. She doesn’t care what anyone may say about seeing people on the battlefield dead, seeing their friend in the state Lancelot was in isn’t easy. It shouldn’t be easy. If it ever is, something has gone terribly wrong. And Lancelot, she can’t imagine what he would dream about. The healer in her wants to make everyone drink something to help them sleep, but she knows that’s not the right thing to do. Still she can’t quite stop the stab of nerves when Kaze announces she’s going to sleep.

“I have things, if people need help,” she blurts out.

“Thank you,” Kaze says, “but no Paladin is interrupting my sleep” she glances at Bedivere, Lancelot and Tristain,“former or otherwise.”

Most of them say something similar. Pym wonders if it’s her own skill that makes them nervous, but Lancelot fell asleep with no urging. She doesn’t know how Kaze can make going to sleep so defiant, but she’s impressed by it. The ship may be opulent but it’s a ship. She almost feels at home on them by now. Everything has worked out but she’s still terrified of closing her eyes. Even though she’s tired, even though she’s not the one that got kidnapped—even though she’s managed to successfully fall asleep since they got Lancelot back. Even for only a few hours. She feels ridiculous over thinking things, especially as everyone start to peel off to turn in except for those on watch.

“Are you joining the watch?” She asks Lancelot.

“I’m forbidden,” he says, looking perturbed at it, “even though I’m fully healed.”

She doesn’t know why she finds that relieving. Especially because the look on Lancelot’s face says he will not take to being kept from doing his duty for very long. She has to remind herself that he’s healed and armed and keeping watch on a ship is probably the easiest task he’ll have. It also shouldn’t be endearing to see him almost look like he’s pouting. Keeping watch, using his skills to help, it’s something he desperately wants to do. But that also needs to be tempered with him knowing he doesn’t have to do it. He’s valued here for more than just his skill. The person he is comes first.

“You could still probably use the rest,” she says.

“I’m healed,” he repeats.

“I know,” she says, “he’s just trying to help,” he doesn’t look convinced, “and he also probably remembers you didn’t like boats.”

Lancelot mulls it over in his head and seems to see her point, even if he doesn’t like it. Pym finds herself strangely relieved that he does, though she cannot say why. It’s not as though they have disagreed on much since they’ve been reunited—or even before that, if she thinks about it. Perhaps that’s why it was so jarring. She never expected to be hurt or upset about disagreeing with someone whose opinion she never thought would matter. Though she supposed it’s time to give up the ghost on that front. His opinion does matter. The thought of losing him was as paralyzing as the thought of losing anyone else she cared about. If she forced herself to honestly, it may even have been more so.

His absence felt like missing a piece of herself.

The thought threatens to make her blush, which is why she tries to shove it back. She is used to being surrounded by powerful people, she’s not used to allowing herself to need them. His words about ignoring a destiny that doesn’t include her keep turning over in the back of her head, almost like a song. She half wishes it would stop. She knows that none of the people have passed have had the kind of choice where what they wanted truly matters, she doesn’t think they wanted to go. Nimue tried so hard to run. The thing that settles something like hope in her chest is that he may be right. If there is such a thing as destiny, if she is vain enough to believe that she has one, theirs may include each other. Why else would it feel so horribly wrong when they are apart?

“Pym?” She jerks at the sound of her name to see Lancelot looking at her curiously.

“Sorry,” she says, feeling the heat she’s fought against rush through her face, “I got lost in my thought,” she says, “did you say something?”

“No,” he says, “you seemed lost.”

“Oh.”

She’s still quite unsettled at being read like he can read her, though she has to admit it’s a two way thing. The same way he can look at her and know how she is lost, she can look at him and see the worry that she thinks most others would miss. Worry that she knows she helped put there when she pushed everyone away in her grief.

“Did you have nightmares when I was taken?” She asks abruptly.

“No,” he says, “I knew I would get you back,” she nods, hating that she had any doubt about the situation, “I knew how to fight what had you,” she nods again, “sleeping together also helped.”

“I knew we would get you back,” she says.

“Not in the way I did,” He replies. She looks at him, “I have more experience with the Paladins,” he scans her face, “it’s not a bad thing.”

“I know,” she says, “I did trust we’d get you back.”

“I didn’t trust anyone,” he says simply. She gives him a questioning look, “they tried to stop me to plan something out, I ignored them.”

She doesn’t know why the sound of that makes her feel like she’s swallowed those golden minnows. Someone single mind idly running off to rescue her is crazy, not something she would ever expect. From anyone. Even though she knew he was coming after her and she’d left him a trail, hearing that he ignored everyone else to run after her feels different.

“Why?” She asks.

“Getting to you was the only thing that mattered.”

She really wishes the feeling she gets when he says things like that would stop. It’s as though her body understands something her mind does not. If she can say one thing about him, it’s that he’s determined and focused. Almost to a fault. If he wanted to come for her, she doubts anything could have stopped him. She toys with a thread on her dress, thinking of the darker side of that determination. She’s grown up finding that there is a grey area in the world, things can be wonderful and terrible at the same time.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do that for you,” she admits.

“Why?”

“Why what?” She asks.

“Why are you sorry? You came for me,” he points out.

“But it took days,” she says, “and you got hurt.”

“You got hurt,” he reminds her, a shadow crossing his face, “Nimue healed you,” he touches the back of her hand, “I didn’t know how you would come for me but I knew you would.”

“Good,” she says, “sorry, I feel ridiculous about this. You’re the one who got kidnapped.”

He nods.

“I’ve been taken before,” he points out. She frowns in confusion, “you have no experience with kidnapping.”

His logic surprises a laugh out of her, though it is a terrible thing to laugh at. He is right though, up until she was being dragged away by the Paladins she had no experience with kidnapping. Not like him. It’s not something she ever planned on having experience with. She never thought her life would involve so much of this.

“You’re right,” she says, “that’s a horrible thing to have experience with but you’re right,” she fiddles with her fingers for a moment, “can I ask you something and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to?” He nods, “did you rescue Paladins? Back then?”

She doesn’t know what possesses her to ask it. It’s almost an unspoken rule that what he did back then is something they don’t deny but they don’t exactly go into particulars. She’s been sure up until this point that she doesn’t need to know and he hasn’t wanted to talk about it. She doesn’t know why she’s opening this door. She looks for any sign he doesn’t want to talk about it but he has his face looking away. Then he shifts his weight and looks at her.

“Yes,” he says, “and nobles,” he adds, “usually taken by the Fey,” he seems to gather his thoughts, “but while traveling, it used to be standard practice that they would take some Fey object or vial of Fey blood so I could track them.”

It’s a horrible and clever idea. Once again the amount of exploitation he’s gone though makes her feel ill, even if the knowledge that he would use the blood of the Fey he killed to track the people giving orders, makes her feel worse. It’s all just horrible. But even in that horror she realizes that her first thought is of what he went through, not of the Fey that were killed. The absence of the guilt that should bring is a sharp contrast to the last time she was on a boat with him, wondering if considering them friends was a betrayal of everyone she loved. She feels his gaze on her, judging her reaction to what he’s said.

“It’s a clever idea,” she says, “but it’s a horrible one too,” He nods, though his face is unchanged, “thank you for telling me,” she wraps her arms around her middle, “I should stop stalling.”

“You don’t have to sleep alone,” She looks at him in surprise. Color forms on his cheeks and he looks down resolutely before meeting her gaze again, “we could share—“

“Alright,” she cuts him off. She doesn’t really care what he’s thinking.

But she’s surprised what he’s thinking is sleeping just outside where they are keeping the horses.

Then again she shouldn’t be, Goliath is probably the greatest comfort to him for any part of him that’s upset. He has his hammock strung up by the door. She wonders if he’s afraid of conjuring his Fire, but they both seem to know that isn’t something to be afraid of. He has control of his Fire. What happened in the temple just seems to have cemented that. He stops to stroke Goliath’s muzzle. Now that he’s alright, Goliath is more like his old self and gives a pleased lipping to his hand before returning to his hay.

She lays next to him, though thanks to the hammock she winds up nearly half on top of him. They both look surprised as she eases herself back and he shifts over.

“Is this—“ she starts

“Here—“ he moves over

“Thank you.”

It takes a little wiggling to find a comfortable position until they wind up with her head against his chest and his arm over her shoulders. It shouldn’t feel strange, she’s fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder and they had been sleeping back to back. And it takes a moment to realize it should, but it doesn’t. It’s like she’s expecting it to feel odd but it doesn’t. It feels nice.

“You’re smiling,” he points out.

“I’m thinking about Guinevere,” she half lies. He looks at her curiously, “well Arthur flew off a ship for you, but you almost died and now we’re sharing a hammock. I think you may be in more danger.”

He’s quiet for a moment, considering her words.

“I suppose we’ll just have to fight,” he says.

Pym doesn’t want to think about what a fight between him and Guinevere looks like. Somehow if there was one person she could see charging through the Fey Fire, it would be Guinevere. She knows he’s joking but the thought reminds her of him being chained up. The sleeve on his other wrist has ridden up and she can see the scars around his wrists. She’s just glad that those didn’t stay anywhere else. Not like that. A breeze blows through the open barn and she realizes that she should be cold but she’s not.

“You’re very warm,” she says. He angles his head towards her, “I didn’t really notice until we started doing this.”

“Sleeping together?” He deadpans.

“Yes,” she says, “do I make you cold?”

“No,” he says, “I usually get hot at night,” she looks at him curiously, “I never used a bedroll until I met you, I usually just slept on my cloak on the ground.”

“Has it gotten worse since the temple?”

He considers for a moment.

“I’m not sure,” he admits.

“It’s still new,” she points out, “I’m sure there’s more to figure out,” she hesitates “are you still planning on training Tristain?”

“Should I not?”

“No,” she says, “I think it would be good,” she adds, “as long as she doesn’t kill you or anything.”

“Not anymore,” he says. She looks at him curiously, she can’t remember if she explained about the hawks. She can’t even really remember what she’s worried about as she listens to his heart and the rise and fall of his chest. He holds his hand up, “we’re matriarchal but this changes things,” he says, “I think it makes me an adult.”

The words settle and she realizes what it means. Putting him on the path to being a Squire was one way of doing it, she wasn’t expecting for him to find another.

“So you’ve become an adult Fey,” she says.

Saying it aloud seems to catch him off guard and she feels his breath catch as the fingers in her shoulder tighten. But when she exhales it seems to remind him to do the same.

“For the Ash Folk,” he says.

“Oh I wasn’t suggesting you stop being a Squire,” she says, “I just hadn’t realized,” she looks at her own stained fingertips, “i guess we match, you’re becoming a member of the Sky Folk and I’ve got these.”

“You know more about being Sky Folk than I know about being Ash Folk,” he points out softly.

“Then I guess we’ll be something new,” she says, stifling a yawn, “besides I think we’ve supposed to be Guinevere’s subjects first.”

He’s quiet for a moment and she almost thinks he’s fallen asleep, but when she looks up she can see him mulling over her words. He realizes she’s looking at him and looks down at her. He’s thoughtful with his words, but he seems to almost struggle to find the right ones. Pym hopes he knows he doesn’t have to do that with her. He catches her gaze and she feels him tense slightly, if she hadn’t been laying on his chest she probably would have missed it.

“I think you, me and Squirrel are something else first,” he says, “then Guinevere’s subjects.”

She smiles at him, though she knows it’s probably dangerous to say such things with the Raiders around them. But she thinks they would understand. Guinevere too, even if she was annoyed at it.

“Alright, we’re something else first,” she says. He nods and she feels him relax, though she decides not to say anything about it, “Bors too,” she adds, “he’ll be heartbroken otherwise.”

He lets out a soft sound that’s something like a laugh and his fingers tighten again on her arm.

“Bors too,” he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo I hope everyone has their toothbrushes ready after that fluff. We are rounding the end of this book/season/portion and the next one will be starting soon and I am so excited. Thank you for all the support.
> 
> Feedback is love! Thank you for the comments, kudos, messages. I cannot tell you how motivating it is to know I am not on this journey alone. Please let me know how you felt about this chapter and I’ll see you in the next one!


	81. Tinder: Part 39

“How are we getting back to Guinevere?”

Kaze and Arthur look at each other. If they tell him not to worry about it, Lancelot is going to send someone else to ask them and report back. He’s willing to tolerate a certain amount of coddling but only a slight amount and only because he’s been asked to. He knows his body. Coddling is not what he needs. And something like “how are we returning to our friends on a stolen ship without getting killed” is something he needs to know. Most of the people here are distinctive looking, him, a Tristain and Kaze are the worst. But Pym’s hair, Bedivere’s missing hand—everything about Morgana. All of it doesn’t help.

“It’s two months early,” he continues when no-one answers, “Are they ready for us?” He looks between them, “do you have a plan?”

“Of course,” Arthur says as Kaze rolls her eyes. He focuses on her and she gives him a long, hard look, “Guinevere’s taking the port.”

“What?!”

He doesn’t expect the angry demand to escape his lips. Arthur cringes and Kaze frowns at both of them. But Lancelot is immediately concerned. Taking a port is different. Taking it means taking over the city, it’s a declaration. Not the subtle thing they have been doing. If they have planned two months to take the port, he has no idea what they’re coming back to. Arthur and the sword are here. Kaze is here. He is here. He knows that Guinevere is a good fighter, that she has her Raiders. But those Raiders agains the Church? His mind also goes to the little ones and the people who don’t want to fight, who joined them to build something. Who is watching them? Has she gone into this fight without Gawain?

“We have people on board—“ he starts

“We know,” Arthur says.

“And Tristain.”

“Tristain’s not going to be a problem,” Kaze cuts in. He looks at her and she meets his gaze easily, “I won her loyalty until we’re back on land.”

“You can’t think that counts,” he starts.

“So then you’ll kill her,” Kaze says, glancing towards his hands.

Kaze seems to know what they mean, or she guesses at it anyway. Normally Lancelot is appreciative if not a little wary of the similarities. It feels like he’s not alone. At the moment it’s another thing that makes him want to yell. Instead he forces himself to take a deep breath and speak. Though finding his voice when he’s lost in emotion is not something that comes easily.

  
“We cannot bring the little ones into a war zone,” he says, “they’re of no use.”

“We’re not bringing them into a war zone,” Arthur says, “we’re going to drop them off—“

“You know that isn’t going to work,” he cuts in. They look at him, “they aren’t ready.”

Arthur softens at that in a way Lancelot isn’t comfortable with. He knows they aren’t ready. That it isn’t fair to ask them to leave again so soon after they’ve all be re-united. Beyond that, leaving them alone seems like a foolish thing to do. The Paladins have enough sense to know that they are important to him, even if they don’t know the full extent. And it’s been enough time that whoever was waiting for Abbott Wicklow at the Via Francigena will have realized they are not coming. They will be looking for them. If they find Squirrel, Pym, Bors and whoever else, they will not be as foolish as they were with him.

“It’s the safest way,” Arthur says.

“No,” he replies. Arthur frowns, “they cannot go alone and you need me.”

They both look surprised at him and Lancelot doesn’t quite know what he’s thinking. They need him, he cannot be in two places at once. But they’ve managed fine without him. The swords on his hip feel unusually heavy, all of a sudden. A reminder of a time when the only thing that mattered were the orders that he was given. That’s not the case anymore. He can’t quite stop the guilt that wells up in him at the realization that he would defy orders now. Arthur rises up and Lancelot feels the tension in his muscles. He clenches and relaxes his jaw. There’s no anger on Arthur’s face but that’s no guarantee of anything.

“We need you,” Arthur agrees, “but if you want to go with them, we won’t stop you.”

“It’s too much of a risk,” he says.

Arthur moves his hand and Lancelot cannot quite hide the shift in his weight as he braces for the strike. But Arthur just clutches at his chest as though he’s the one whose wounded. Kaze gives a snort of a laugh. Lancelot looks between them even as Arthur seems to catch on that something is wrong. Kaze moves forward, either not seeing or not caring as she comes to stand near Arthur. Lancelot is grateful she’s not at his back, but it’s a near thing.

“He thinks so little of our abilities,” she scoffs. He presses his lips together, “we can take the port.”

He doesn’t know why he wants to argue the point. Why it feels like choosing between two betrayals. The choice is simple, or it should be. But it feels as though he must choose between what he wants to do and what he should do. How many lives can be saved—truly saved—by taking the port. More than the three he could save by going with them. Does he have any right to choose their lives over the ones he could save? After he’s taken so many? They could take the port without him but it will be far easier if he is there. He can save more lives if he is there. He still doesn’t know how many died when he was taken by the Paladins.

“We could also keep them here,” Arthur suggests, “or if you have another idea—“

“Yes,” Morgana cuts in, “i’ll go see how taking the port is going and report back.”

Lancelot jerks but contains the jump. If Morgana is sticking around, he is going to need to get used to it. She glances at him, letting him know he didn’t contain it as well as he thought. Though he’s among friends, Morgana is something else. Some undefined category. He cannot say if she is his friend or enemy, only that she would do anything for Arthur. Arthur and Nimue. She is like Merlin in that regard. He wonders suddenly if she knows about this city too. If she is back to help build it. Arthur’s face falls at the suggestion of Morgans going into battle, as though a few days ago she didn’t pitch both of them off a burning ship. Can she even die? Does it matter?

“Morgana—“ Arthur starts.

“Oh don’t ‘Morgana’ me, I’ll be fine,” the two of them look at each other and something in Morgana takes on the appearance of a much more alive woman, “I was saving Fey long before I had these powers.”

“I know,” Arthur says.

“Good,” she pauses a moment and rolls her eyes, “what?”

“I just don’t like the idea of you flinging yourself into a battle,” he says, almost sheepishly.

“I’ll be fine! It’s not like they can hurt me,” she retorts, “I know it’s not my time to die.”

“Is it anyones?” Lancelot asks.

She swings to look at him and he meets her gaze. They all look at him but he only looks at her. Does she know about the city? Does she know that Pym is not there? Lancelot refuses to entertain the idea that this is how things end. He would not want to bring them into a battle regardless, but the threat of this city looms largely over him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a mix of emotions fly over Arthur’s face. He’s worried and he’s anxious, not about the battle but about Morgana going there. Lancelot cannot help but be intrigued by it.

“Maybe,” Morgana says, “but I’m not here to prevent anyone’s deaths.”

His hand drops to his sword.

“Alright, alright,” Arthur is between them suddenly, “Morgana.”

“Don’t ‘Morgana’ me,” she snaps back, “I’ll look and I’ll come back,” she says.

It’s still hard for Lancelot to reconcile her with the nun he knew in passing. The defiance he mistook for just the will of someone who had been raised wrong and found salvation late. Not hopeless, not demon born, but certainly in trouble. He can see that defiance for what it is. He respects and, he realizes suddenly, envies it. He doesn’t think Morgana has ever had a moment of confusion for where her loyalties lay.

“It’s the best plan,” Kaze says.

Lancelot looks over at Arthur who looks as though he’s been struck. His features harden and Lancelot realizes he’s not the only one struggling with a betrayal of some kind. Arthur is protective over Morgana, that much is clear. How could he not be? Lancelot remembers the sound of his mother’s voice, telling him to take Hector with him. Was he a brother? Could he have been one? Would he have looked at him the same way Arthur looks at Morgana, no matter how powerful he may have been? He knows he thinks that way about Squirrel. Though the boy gets better at fighting and taking care of himself with each passing day, Lancelot dreads the one when he runs off on adventures with nothing to stop him. When his age is neither reason nor excuse.

“If we can’t think of a better one,” Arthur says.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Morgana says, something between outrage and exasperation in her voice, “I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Arthur says quietly.

“We can think of something better,” Lancelot blurts out, even though his voice comes out steady. They all look at him. He has no ideas, no great revelations, but Arthur looks so melancholy and worried he cannot help but want to do something, “Guinevere has Gawain with her. I should be able to smell—“

“Does your nose have eyes?” Morgana jabs

“I know when Gawain is injured,” he shoots back.

“And whose fault was that?” She questions, somehow digging into the guilt with accuracy that almost takes his breath away.

“Morgana!” Arthur cuts in.

Lancelot knows that she’s right. Gawain’s death is one of so many. He’s so humbled by them coming to get him, his mind drags back to how many came after the Fey he let survive, how many traps he baited like he did with Squirrel. The fact that he knows any of their names, no matter how few, is a miracle in and of itself. The guilt has never really gone, but it seems to grow with Morgana’s presence. Almost to overwhelming heights. He knows his lungs are working, but it feels as though his mind is drowning in guilt. His fingers tighten on the hilt of his blades. He’s been overwhelmed by the feeling before, this is nothing new. His swords have been blessed. He may not believe in the Church anymore, but he believes in that.

“It was my fault,” he says. One of her eyebrows quirks up, “I ran him through and brought him to the camp,” he continues, “I did it,” he looks at the rest of them, “if he’s injured I’ll be able to smell it, even with what he’s become.”

“How far away?” Arthur asks.

“Depends on the wind,” he says, “I smelled all of you nearly a day away,” he adds, “but the wind was on our side.”

“No, I did that,” Morgana says, “was that not obvious?”

They shake their heads. Lancelot isn’t sure how it’s supposed to be. Even he isn’t fully clear on what Morgana can or cannot do. Nor is anyone, he thinks. Maybe not even her. Morgana seems to know that she can do this though.

“Bring the boat around,” she says, “I’ll take care of the winds. Maybe get the other one up here.”

He nods and goes down to find Tristain. She’s cross legged in front of her precious hawks, feeding them through the bars of their cage. Next to her Pym is reading through her book. He slows his step as he realizes the drowning guilt has lessened significantly. Pym looks at him and he’s aware that Tristain knows his presence. But the sharp lessening of the guilt makes him take a step backwards. At five steps back, he finds it beginning again. Gentler, but there is a focus to it. Instead of bringing Tristain up, he looks at them both.

“Go to the far wall,” he says.

“Why?” Tristain asks.

“Come on,” Pym says. She rolls her eyes but listens as they move farther away. Lancelot returns to the deck and ignores everyone, walking up to Morgana.

“Can you control it?” He asks. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, “is it focused on me?”

She’s quiet for a moment, looking out at the sea and then turns to face him.

“It’s anyone who comes in a certain range,” she says, “what does it make you feel?”

“Guilt,” he says. She nods.

“It preys on what you feel most strongly,” she says, “not that you don’t deserve it.”

He inclines his head, swallowing back the question of what it is or what it makes anyone feel. He’s always felt guilt. Guilt for being a coward, for being weak, for running, for staying, for killing his own kind, for being one of them at all—guilt is the emotion he’s most familiar with. Feeling like someone who is worth something for more than just raw skill is a new, strange feeling. One he imagines he’s too old to ever become fully used to.

“Do you know the range?”

“It’s not the same for everyone,” she says, “only those it has an interest in,” he frowns, not fully understanding what she means. Morgana doesn’t seem to care to elaborate and shrugs instead, “it should be fine if you and Tristain stand there and I go here.”

It’s not the priority right now, keeping them all on the ship is. Especially Morgana. If not for her than for Arthur’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! For those not looking at my Tumblr, sorry for vanishing! Given my usual posting schedule it’s hard to believe I have a job, family etc. But everything got a bit crazy this week in real life was followed by some ridiculous fandom drama. Anyway here you go! Thank you for all the support and if you feel so inclined I would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter!


	82. Tinder: Part 40

“You need to try and connect with the Hidden.”

Pym jumps at the way Kaze says it and the beads on her wrist suddenly feel tight. Which is all in her head. She looks at Kaze who meets her gaze steadily. She’s silent but she doesn’t look patient and Pym feels something in her recoil. She thought she was clear that wasn’t something she could do. Even if she glossed over the details about why the Hidden didn’t like her. But there’s a sharp seriousness in Kaze’s tone, the kind that comes out most frequently when she’s talking about the most important things. 

“I can’t,” Pym starts.

“You’re High Summoner, aren’t you?”  
  
“Only because there’s no-one else,” she says.

“Other Sky Folk women survived, there have been male High Summoners before.”

“I was just standing closest,” she dismisses, “and there haven’t been male summoners in centuries but if the Hidden want to pick one then they’re more than welcome to.”

Kaze just looks at her and Pym finds herself desperately trying to shore up her defenses to the look. She can understand why the Queens of her Folk would seek her out for counsel, it’s not just that Kaze gives good advice. She’s also very good at making sure that advice is followed. But Pym isn’t a Queen, she’s not even really High Summoner. She’s a village girl from a disgraced family. Lancelot or Squirrel or even Arthur would have a better chance of talking to the Hidden than she would.

“You need to try and connect with them,” Kaze repeats.

“I heard you and I’m telling you I cannot,’ Pym says, “they haven’t spoken to me. Ever,” Kaze raises an eyebrow, “I’ve caught glimpses of them but they don’t stay. I don’t connect with them like you’re saying.”

“You need to try.”

“Why?” Pym demands and Kaze almost smiles, like that’s what she’s been waiting for her to say. 

“Lancelot can smell that they are trying to signal us. We’re heading for that place. The Hidden may be able to tell us more.” 

Hearing that Lancelot is off smelling things and directing the ship makes Pym shove her book away and take off for the stairs. It’s not that she doesn’t trust what’s going on, but if Guinevere knows how to signal them don’t the Paladins? Lancelot would surely know the difference. But the wound of him sacrificing himself is too fresh for her to say confidently that she’s alright with blindly heading into this. He’s standing on the deck with his head bowed and his hood up. She can see how similar he looks to the man he used to be. But that’s the same man who was dragged half dead onto her table months ago. 

“What did you smell?” She questions.

  
He turns towards her quickly. Pym ignores the jump her stomach seems to give when his eyes blankly lock onto her before recognition comes into them. He shifts his body slightly and behind him she can see Morgana and Arthur are talking. Or arguing rather. She doesn’t know why Lancelot looks dazed or his hand is dropped to his swords, but she likes neither of those things. He’s healed, she has to remind herself. Iron stops his ability and the only iron that was in him was the stuff in his gut. His head was not impaled like that. His brain is fine. 

“It’s some kind of Fey flower,” he says, “or plant.”

“What does it smell like?” She asks.

He looks at her blankly and she feels the worry sharpen. Though she reminds herself that it could be because he’s not used to having to explain what he smells. He’s usually just able to smell things, give directions and they listen. But if he can phrase it in a way that she can understand, maybe she can know and make an educated guess. Because otherwise she’s going to have to try and connect to the Hidden and that isn’t going to go well, if anything happens at all. If they can figure this out without her having to do that, they will be better off. 

“It smells like just before something is rotten,” he says, “and it’s Fey.”

  
“Is it Gawain?”

  
He turns his head back towards it and she watches him take a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. His eyes remain closed before he shakes his head. 

  
“No. He’s there. He helps,” he says, “but it’s not that entirely.” 

“Have you smelled it before?”

“Yes,” he says after a moment of consideration. His eyes open, “when I was hunting Nimue. It wasn’t as strong then.”

What he has done, who he has hunted, it’s come up more in the past days than it has before. As if the past refuses to be pushed aside like she knows she has been doing. It’s not that she’s in denial about it, but the details of it, those haven’t been things she’s pressed for before. Now is not the time to get lost in that though. It’s something she knows will need to be dealt with sooner rather than later. But right now they need to stay alive.

  
“It was probably the Hidden,” she realizes and fights the urge to swear. Lancelot looks at her curiously, “Kaze said I should try to connect to them to see if they had any insight,” he looks at her blankly, “I’ve never connected to them.”

“Do you not want to try?”

“No!” She objects and it comes out louder than she means for it to. Lancelot nods and looks back over in the direction he was smelling.

“You should go back down then,” he says. 

“Why?” She says, more suspicious suddenly of his urgency to get her off the deck, “come with me.”

“No, I need to be here to direct the ship.”

“Even though we could be going into a trap?” 

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong with you?” She asks, touching his hand. He glances at her at the direct question and the physical touch, “Lancelot?”

He looks over his shoulder and then takes her hand, leading her away. She isn’t sure how far they’ve gone before he stops and seems to come back to himself, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it and taking a deep breath. He looks at her and drops both her hand and the hand from his swords. 

“What is it?” She repeats. 

“Morgana’s powers,” he says. He looks at her, “do you feel something—more than you did?” 

She thinks about it but it doesn’t jump out at her. She feels the same kind of fear she always has when she thinks about the Hidden. The same certainty that everything she heard was right and they are going to punish her like the High Summoner did. She also feels the same kind of guilt she does occasionally when she remembers how complicated the situation with Lancelot is. How it will always be complicated. 

“No,” she says, “I always feel things strongly around you.”

That at least makes him smile slightly. 

“What does it make you feel?”

“Guilt,” he says, “it’s nothing, I’m accustom to it.”

She can’t lie and say he doesn’t deserve it. He’s done things that he should feel guilty for. But at the same time the thought of him suffering more feels—wrong. She looks over to see Arthur still talking to Morgana, neither of them seemingly affected by whatever has affected Lancelot. Perhaps it’s another thing that focuses more on the Fey than humans. Or maybe there are things like the love between siblings that cannot be broken by whatever Morgana now is. 

“It’s not nothing,” she says quietly. He nods at her words.

“The Hidden haven’t objected to you being chosen,” he points out.

  
“They don’t have much choice,” Pym reminds him.

“They do. Bors and Squirrel are both candidates. Merlin as well. Arthur has the sword. I’ve seen them,” he rattles it off, “none of us have seen anything that would say they object to you.”

She snorts softly. 

“What about me not being in the vision?” She points out. He doesn’t have a response for that, “who knows, perhaps they’re just waiting to strike me down.” 

It’s a horrible thing to say but it’s one she’s heard every time she disobeyed. The Hidden favored Nimue and Nimue swore they weren’t going to do such things, but the voice of a playmate stood no chance over the voice of a parent, especially when her family had been put out after her uncle’s behavior. If the Hidden were so kind, surely they would have done something to show Lenore that it wasn’t what they wished. But they hadn’t. Connecting to them now just seems like something far too late. She glances at Lancelot but he’s closed off his emotions, as he seems to do when she brings up Merlin’s vision. Which is one of the reasons she never brought it up. But like the guilt about the details concerning Lancelot’s past deeds, now it doesn’t seem to leave her lips or her mind. 

“If I illuminate the water, will you look?”

“Huh?” She’s surprised by his quiet question but realizes that he’s right, the last time she saw anything even resembling them, it was in the reflection of his fire, “I suppose—“

“You don’t have to,” he cuts in, “I’ve tracked into things before. We can turn if it seems like a place we shouldn’t go.”

“No,” she says, “we should at least try. There’s no sense in anyone getting injured. I just, I’m not sure if it will work—“ she trails off.

“Just try,” he says. 

Pym nods. She can at least try. He leads her over to the side of the ship. She smiles weakly. 

“Just don’t burn it down.”

He almost rolls his eyes at that but nods and raises his hand. It’s truly incredible how she’s gone from hearing stories about Fey Fire to being nearly blinded by it to now almost being used to it. The Fire he now makes is darker somehow than the kind he used to produce. She can look at it without her eyes hurting, at least for a while. But she focuses instead on the water below as he holds the fire aloft. 

There’s nothing there. 

She didn’t expect there to be, but the switch from hopeful to disappointed is still bitter. It still tastes like failure. She shakes her head to let him know that nothing is there. She doesn’t know why she thought it would be. But then she thinks back to the ship burning and she remembers that it wasn’t just the Fire’s reflection. 

  
“Can you put it in the water?” She asks.

“The ship bows out too much here,” he says, closing his hand around the Fire, “we need to go to the bow.” 

“Stay there,” she says and hurries to the front, looking between the siblings, “you need to go to the back of the boat,” she says.

“Come on,” Morgana tells her brother, leading him there. 

Pym turns to see Lancelot walking towards the front of it where she is. It’s the narrowest part and it slopes away from them. Still he steps up and walks onto the forepeak. He crouches down, balancing easily. As though that’s a normal thing to do on a ship and looks at her. 

“Be careful,” she says.

He nods and extends his hand. It takes a moment of concentration before the fire drops in a long coil and just lightly touches the water. Pym hopes it’s enough. She grips the edge and leans over as much as she can, peering through. It’s not still, certainly it’s not as easy to see, but in the green she can see a flash of gold. Then another, further up. And another. They appear slowly again, but soon it seems as though they’ve surrounded the ship and are guiding them to where Lancelot’s told them to go. 

“I can see them!” She calls to him, “they’re pointing us the way you said.” 

He nods and closes his fist. The Fire wavers for a moment before shimmering out. She looks down at the water and thinks she may catch sight of the gold but she can’t be sure. Lancelot stands up and Pym drags her eyes back to him. It’s only a few steps but she moves closer anyway. She hasn’t seen him extend the Fire like he just did and fully healed or not, she knows that what he’s been through has to have some effect. 

It’s almost a miracle that he’s fine until the last step. 

He’s close enough for her to lunge forward when he slips. He immediately shifts his weight and crouches down, using his hand to steady himself but she’s already grabbed the back of his cloak. He looks up at her in surprise and she meets his gaze. Her adrenaline pounding through her. He reaches up and takes her hand, guiding it off his shoulder and gripping her forearm. She copies it and grips his in return, lowering her other hand. It makes it easier for him to come back onto the deck fully. 

“Are you alright,” she asks belatedly. 

“I’m fine,” he says, “not used to boats.”

“Of course not,” she remembers, feeling foolish suddenly, “are you sure?”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he points out.

“I think you’re just going to have to get used to people worrying about you,” she says. He frowns, “that’s what happens when you care about people.”

“I know,” he says, “but I can heal.”

“We can worry about the rest of you as well. Like you worry about us.” 

She knows this wars with his practicality, but she also knows he understands. Probably more than he ever expected to. Pym can somewhat understand. She never expected to face life like she is, even the glimpse of the Hidden that makes her think of Nimue makes her heart ache viciously. It would be better to not care for anyone. But the idea of Lancelot slipping—no matter how slim of a chance it is—also made her feel the same kind of vicious dread. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats. 

“Did you see them?” Arthur asks and Pym is grateful that Morgana doesn’t seem to be with him.

“Yes,” she says, “they’re pointing us in the direction we’re going.”

“That’s good,” he says. 

“No,” Kaze cuts in, also appearing. She looks at Arthur, “we should stop the ship. It’s not enough to just see them. That doesn’t tell us anything.”

She feels Lancelot’s fingers tighten on her forearm. Not painfully, but when she looks up at his face the plan doesn’t seem to be one he’s interested in hearing more about.

“It’s enough for now,” he says, “we’ve both told you it’s alright.” 

“I understand what you’re saying,” Arthur adds, “but stopping the ship would be foolish.”

  
“And I’ve never connected with them,” Pym points out. She gives a weak smile, “I know how to swim but—“

The idea of going into the water like this a hard one, though she imagines if anything could get her to do it it would be something Kaze says. But doing it so that the Hidden can just not help isn’t something she’s anxious to do. Kaze looks between the three of them and shakes her head. 

  
“We could be going into a trap,” she points out. She looks at Pym, “your fear is going to get us killed.” 

The rebuke is sharp and Pym knows it’s deserved. How Kaze can see her fear, she doesn’t know. Maybe it’s just obvious, even if she doesn’t say anything. Lancelot’s hand slips from her forearm to thread their fingers together, gripping her hand. She’s grateful for the support, even though she knows that it’s not deserved. 

“Why don’t you just use a bucket?” Morgana calls over to them, “only one of them deserves to drown.” 

Lancelot glares at the wood. Pym thinks of him almost slipping and then how he, Arthur and Kaze will be the first off. The most likely to die. She nods. 

“Let’s try it.” 

One of the Raiders gets a bucket and fills it with sea water. Pym doesn’t know how this is supposed to work but she crouches in front of it. Lancelot kneels down next to her and looks for her to nod. She does and he dips his fingers into the water, letting the Fire go. Pym sees the others wince and look away but focuses instead on the bucket. The golden shimmer appears after a moment, like her eyes need to adjust to see it. Not knowing what else to do, she takes the hand that has her beads wrapped around it and sticks it in the water. Nothing happens at first. She tries closing her eyes but doesn’t feel much different. She still feels the fear that Kaze is talking about. She tries to think of how she lets it go. 

“Can you move your Fire so I can touch your hand?” She asks him. 

“Hold on,” he says.

The Fire becomes a marble sized ball that floats in the water column. Then he takes her hand. That makes her feel better instantly. She looks at the golden light that flickers in the water and feels her eyes start to go soft. Like they’re looking at something far away. No voices come to her but she feels a wave of calm settle over her. She knows that it’s them and focuses on the warmth of Lancelot’s hand. If he’s here then she’s safe and there is nothing to be afraid of. When she thinks the thought harder, there’s a humming in the back of her head that seems to agree. 

“It’s alright,” she says, “we’re going the right way. We shouldn’t be afraid.” 

Lancelot squeezes her hand and she forces herself back into the present. The humming and the gold light stops, but she feels alright. Lancelot lets go of her hand and takes back the Fire. They straighten up and Pym feels better. It’s not the whispers that everyone else has said they’ve heard, but it sounds like the humming Nimue used to do on wash day. It’s something comforting. Not anything she expected from the Hidden. She rubs the beads on her wrist. Even without Lancelot’s hand in hers, they don’t feel nearly as frightening. She takes the bucket herself and tips it over the edge. 

“It shouldn’t be long,” Lancelot says. 

It isn’t before land becomes visible. The Raiders are good and Morgana’s control of the wind lends them speed. And soon the visible land becomes more defined. She can see the port they left out of. It looks far more green than she was expecting. What Lancelot smelled is a bright blue flower she doesn’t recognize but that is suddenly growing everywhere. It has to be Gawain’s doing. They’ve taken the port, there’s no doubt in her mind. Not because of the flowers.

Guinevere’s dragon banner is flying proudly in the wind that carries them home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of Book/season 2! Thank you for all the support! The one shot that takes us into the next book will be up soon and then we'll start that one. But this with them coming home and the wind is very much how I wished to close this part.
> 
> Feedback is love! Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. Please let me know your thoughts on the chapter and I will see you in the next one!


	83. Tinder & Spark

“You seem troubled, brother,” Gawain says, appearing besides him as if in a dream.

“Just nightmares,” he says, “it’s nothing.”

Gawain nods but Lancelot knows he doesn’t believe him. Their hold on the port is good but Gawain’s power is essential to keeping out the threats. He’s stretched thin and the human aspect of his appearance has suffered as a result. Morgana’s righteous words ring in his ear and the old scar on his bicep aches in remembrance.

“There are things that could help,” Gawain starts.

“I don’t want to become dependent on them,” he says.

Gawain nods.

“You’re not the first Knight to have a troubled sleep after being taken by the Church,” he says and there’s a note of humor in his voice, even as Lancelot fights the urge to recoil, “I would have been the same, I’m sure.”

“How did they make them stop?” He asks.

“Potions,” Gawain says, “and by remembering they were safe.”

Remembering he’s safe isn’t the problem. Lancelot remembers even before he’s fully awake. He knows the difference between the dream of Pym’s scent the actual one. The difference between what now lingers on his clothes and what comes off her in the moment. He knows Squirrel as well. He knows they are unique to him being safe.

“I know I’m safe,” Lancelot says, “they will pass with time.”

“They will,” Gawain agrees.

Lancelot wonders if it sounded as hollow when he said it.

“I used to be able to sleep out of necessity,” he admits, “everyone here sleeps for longer.”

“They are not warriors in the way you are,” Gawain says, “no-one is.”

Lancelot can think of one person, but even Tristain is different. She sleeps uninterrupted, he’s checked on her snoring enough times to know. He’s surprised and yet not at how much more pampering the Trinity Guard seems to have received. Even compared to the most spoiled Paladins. Even among them, he knows he was without more than most. Sleep, food, vices—Father stressed purity to him in a way that very few others had to suffer.

“But,” Gawain says, “that doesn’t mean you’re alone.”

Lancelot knows he’s right about that. And slowly he finds himself believing it in a place that has little to do with knowing.

“Thank you,” he says to Gawain who nods, “do you sleep?’

“I imagine I’ll hibernate or something when the winter comes,” Gawain says, “or not. I’m not really sure. But for now I do not feel the need for sleep,” a smile passes across his features, “my alive self would be very jealous.”

Lancelot departs feeling better at having spoken to him and makes his way back to the church. Squirrel is asleep on his cot and he finds his way back to the one that he shares with Pym. She’s on her side, her braid falling over her shoulder. He knows she’s not asleep from the way she breathes but also that she is pretending. Probably to save him some embarrassment. He gently touches her shoulder to let her know he’s there and gets into cot next to her. She rolls towards him.

“I spoke to Gawain,” he says.

“Do you feel better?”

He thinks for a moment, saving the weight of her head on his chest and nods.

“I do.”

* * *

“Well you’ve gotten better,” Guinevere mutters, looking at the line of stitches, “these are almost straight.”

“They’re holding your skin together,” Pym points out.

Guinevere can’t quite object though it’s clear she wants to. The injuries she’s seeing these days are mostly the bumps and bruises that the Raiders are known for, along with the occasional slash or impalement just to spice things up. Now there are more sparring accidents as well as they train and help train the new people who join them. There are even new healers, though Guinevere and her Raiders always seem to come to her. She wraps Guinevere’s wound even though she rolls her eyes the whole time.

“Can I go or would you like to kiss it better?”

“You can go,” she says, “unless you want a kiss?”

“I’d rather kiss a toad.”

Pym watches her go and cleans up, only to turn and see Squirrel shuffling in, Lancelot behind him. Pym almost asks what is happening but one look at the discolored skin around Squirrel’s eye answers that one. He’s going to have a spectacular bruised eye.

“What happened?”

“I fell,” he says.

“He hit a rock,” Lancelot offers.

“Accidentally!”

She touches his chin and looks at the bruise. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Lancelot leaning forward as well. She’s used to Arthur hovering horribly, but at least he knows that it’s a bit easier without him right there. Lancelot seems to have no concept of it, not where Squirrel is involved. When she turns around, Lancelot is so close she can practically see his eyelashes.

“He’s alright,” she says. His eyes snap to him, “it’s going to be a little easier if you step back.”

Lancelot seems to realize she’s right and takes two steps back before folding his arms. She looks back at her patient who rolls his eyes at that behavior. When she gently prods his cheek and he winces, she sees Lancelot step forward. Though what he plans to do, she cannot say. It’s just a black eye, it’s not anything to really be terrified about. But maybe because it’s Squirrel things are different.

“I’d take it easy on training for a few days,” she says, “let’s get you something cool to put on it.”

“Why?” Lancelot asks.

“To help take the swelling down,” Pym explains.

He nods.

“Stop worrying so much,” Squirrel says, “it’s just a bruise,” she gives Squirrel a look, “he let me ride and the horse spooked.”

“Ah,” she says. Lancelot’s guilt and worry make more sense suddenly, though somewhere deep down they both know that Squirrel will get injured training. She doubts Lancelot has any concept of appropriate training injuries though and it’s a painful reminder of what his early life was like, “let’s get something cool on it,” she repeats, “and see how it looks,” she looks at Lancelot, “he’s going to be fine.”

He nods but looks less than convinced.

For no reason Pym wonders how he’s going to handle it when they have a place to live and people feel comfortable enough to start having little ones again.

* * *

The tree explodes.

Lancelot manages to throw up his own Fire, cocooning the debris that erupt. It’s a smaller tree but they are lucky no-one gets hurt. He knows that only sending Goliath and Pym and Squirrel ahead saved them from the debris the first time he used the Fire in their presence. But seeing the amount of damage from someone else still makes him wonder how they escaped unscathed. Himself included.

“How do I go from that to that,” she says, pointing at his Fire.

“Control,” he says.

“Oh that’s helpful,” Tristain snaps, “why didn’t I think of that?” She folds her arms, “if I’m not allowed to use the flog, how am I supposed to control anything?”

Lancelot knows her logic and he’s felt the same frustration, but the pointed way she asks makes him feel cold. Probably for the first time. He’s understood the brutality he was raised with, how it initially worked with what he knew. Even as it warped him. But to hear it thrown back in the same way, it makes something in him recoil. In a way that he isn’t sure it ever has before. He feels none of the itching for the flog that he’s used to, just an odd wave of nausea at the way those words spilled from his lips.

“Kaze,” he says, “you need to speak to her.”

“Is that how you did it?”

“She helped.”

Kaze and Tristain speak the same physical language and he would rather deal with a dozen exploding trees than try to have Pym and Squirrel help Tristain.

* * *

“I made the choice not to say anything, Merlin was just respecting that!”

“I don’t give a flying shit what his excuse is, you’re one of mine!

Pym cringes from the step that Guinevere takes and wonders why she’s thrown herself in front of the Druid. Maybe just the idea of anyone dying for her is a horrible one, regardless of if they deserve it or not. Merlin seems less than afraid, Pym supposes immortality will do that to you. Even though she thinks the Gods themselves should probably be concerned about Guinevere stalking towards them to kill.

“I just said she wasn’t there. There could be any number of reasons,” Merlin says. He jumps suddenly, “could you not do that?”

Pym looks over her shoulder and sees Lancelot has cut off any exit. As upset as she is about the vision, she doesn’t want to see either of them hurt. Any of them, though she doubts Merlin can be. She also doesn’t want him to spew more visions. No-one else should lose sleep over his words. Lancelot doesn’t move forward but she can see his anger and they both know exactly what he’s doing.

“Why is she not there?” Guinevere demands.

“I don’t know,” Merlin says, “I thought she was just some village girl—“ Guinevere almost snarls.

“I am!” Pym says loudly, drawing all their attention back to her, “that’s exactly what I am. I don’t know why you can’t see me in your vision.”

“Well given the evidence I think you’re being protected,” the Druid says.

“Protected by who?” Lancelot questions sharply.

Merlin smiles.

“No need to be jealous. It’s more of a what,” he says, “you are a Summoner, though given the Sky Folk’s natural abilities that shouldn’t surprise me. You may not have the makings of a High Summoner but that’s not really up to any of us. The Hidden choose.”

“Nimue chose me,” Pym corrects.

“Yes,” he says “the Hidden agree,” he adds, “it might be one of those.”

Guinevere walks up to Merlin and Pym knows Merlin’s a former drunk—former so many things. But he’s still dangerous. Not that such a thing makes a difference. She sees Lancelot’s hand drop to his blades. It’s far less about harming Merlin in the moment and far more about protecting Guinevere. It doesn’t make her feel any better about their chances of getting out of there.

“I want to her about your visions,” Guinevere says, “before they happen.”

“It doesn’t really work that way,” Merlin points out. Her eyes narrow, “what about as soon as they happen?”

“The second they happen.”

“The second they happen,” he says, “as long as that one doesn’t burn me for telling you first.”

Lancelot’s eyes narrow and Pym imagines there’s no guarantees for any of their behavior. It might be best for everyone if Merlin has no more visions.

Though she doubts they’ll be that lucky.

* * *

“You’ll be careful?” she asks softly into the darkness.

“Yes,” he says.

“Actually careful,” she repeats.

  
“Yes,” he repeats, “but I cannot let others be taken.”

“No, I know,” she says, “I don’t want you to,” she says emphatically, “I’m just—“ she trails off, “it’s the first time you’re going out again.”

He’s quiet for a moment, it’s a strange thing still to hear she’s afraid and to know that fear is for him rather than of him. That anyone is afraid for him. He doesn’t want to make her feel that way, though she knows they need to go. That they have another rare opportunity to strike back. To drive another wedge between Cumber and Uther.

“If I don’t come back, I know you’ll come after me,” he says instead.

“Well that goes without saying,” she says, craning her neck to look at him, “you’ll be careful though? Even if you get taken just—“

“I’ll be careful,” he says.

“By the Hidden—“ they both look at Squirrel through the darkness as he gets up, yanking the amulet off and shoving it at him, “just take this with you. I promise to stay close. Now can you two stop so we can get some sleep?”

He takes the amulet and nods back towards Squirrel’s bedroll. The boy shivers and gives him a stubborn glare before going back to his bed. Lancelot frowns and realizes that the fall has turned almost into winter. If he touches the back of his head he can feel his hair growing in more. He’s surprised at how different things are. Of all the ways he thought winter would begin, none of this was ever in his head. He slips the amulet over his head.

“You’ll stay warm while I’m gone?” he asks.

“I think I’ll manage,” she promises, “but you should come back quickly all the same.”


	84. Spark: Part 1

“Stop them,” Lancelot tells Arthur and brings Goliath around, “we’re leaving tracks.”

Arthur gives the command as Lancelot looks at their traveling party. Thankfully it’s not big. Unfortunately neither Cumber nor Uther nor anyone of great importance was in the latest group they attacked. Even this many would seem unnecessary. The snow that’s started to fall is a light powder, it could melt away. But the less information they have about the party going out, the better.

“Get single file,” he starts.

“No, lets spread out if this looks like regular people on the road they’ll suspect less.”

Lancelot considers the argument and then nods, Arthur has a point. He pulls Goliath to the side and rides him further than their tracks. He’s distinct to Lancelot but his hoof prints look the same as any of the other horses. He weaves him in and out, hoping to look more like a drunk or someone who just rode along the road. He walks Goliath back, though it gives the others a head start. He needs Goliath’s tracks to just look like someone walked. Midway he dismounts and wraps one of his boot in a length of cloth, resuming the road with an odd, limped gait.

“Smart idea,” Arthur says, jumping off his horse.

“You should go ahead,” he says.

“I’ll walk with you, better if we make more tracks,” he says.

Lancelot wavers for a moment before nodding. The snow isn’t falling too heavily yet and Arthur is dressed more for the cold than he has been. He’s remarked on it several times, much to Lancelot’s surprise. He would have expected Arthur to sing his way into warm accommodations. They keep their eyes open for any sign of trouble but there’s nothing but the light snow. Their footprints just speak of two travelers heading down this road. It’s an odd thing to contrast with what they actually are. The others ride ahead but Gawain waits for them at the bend that takes them to the port. They walk slightly down the other bend and then a path of green vines lifts them up and brings them over to the road they need to be on. They mount and continue on their way.

“You don’t seem to be hibernating,” Lancelot points out to Gawain.

“Not yet,” he says, “though perhaps not at all.”

“This is a new winter for all of us,” Arthur remarks.

Lancelot sees the projectile out of the corner of his eye and ducks for it to sail past.

Arthur has a point.

Squirrel dives behind the wall and he can hear Bors whispering frantically to him. They must have spoken to the others and know how uneventful this was. Gawain snickers, though he tries to hide it and Arthur dismounts with a surprising amount of silence. There’s a paltry amount of snow but it’s enough to make it into a ball. He coughs lightly and one of them pops out, only to get the snowball chucked at his arm. There’s a moment of hushed silence.

“Get him!”

There’s a flurry of snowballs suddenly that make Goliath huff somewhat nervously. Lancelot puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him from the ruckus to the barn. It’s been uneventful but the snow was unplanned. He needs to tend to him. Under the roof, he shakes the snow from his boots and cloak and leads Goliath to his stall. He’s surprised to find it already occupied, though he knows he shouldn’t be.

“Welcome back,” Pym says, setting down the blanket she’s fixed a strap to and standing up.

She looks as viciously relieved as he feels. No-one has died. None of them were captured and the ones who were, they were left with their lives and in their empty carriage to await rescue. Nothing bad happened. There was no reason to feel concerned but after a few days, he finds that being back here, seeing her, is the first time he feels like he can relax. They read each other well enough for him to see his emotions reflected back on her.

“Thank you,” he says.

“We weren’t planning on so much snow, I fixed Goliath’s blanket,” she explains. Goliath bats her affectionately, “we’re making sure everyone’s warm.” He hears another stall door close, “Bedivere’s helping.”

“Squirrel—“ he starts.

“Is a boy still, he should be out playing with his friends,” she cuts in.

Lancelot nods, not sure why he doesn’t like the idea of Bedivere volunteering to help. It’s probably the idea of something as evil as the Church influencing Pym. Though he knows that Bedivere is not one of them, not really. Not anymore. If he can be trusted then eventually Bedivere will earn that trust too. Pym doesn’t move and so he sets about undoing Goliath’s tack and getting him settled. Pym’s watched him do it enough to help.

“How was it?” She asks.

“Uneventful,” he relays back, “there was no killing,” she smiles at him and he wonders if it’s the relief in his voice, “though they weren’t happy to be left in the cold.”

“Being happy must be a strange feeling for them,” Pym says, sarcasm edging her voice.

“Very strange,” he agrees, settling the new blanket on Goliath and doing up the straps. He turns and looks at Pym, “are you ready to let me out of your sight?”

He doesn’t mean it as an accusation but as a genuine question. She looks at him for a moment and then shakes her head. He nods in acknowledgement. He can understand her frustration and he doesn’t think anything he has to do are things she’s not allowed to be aware of. Not that anything really is. They have an agreement to tell each other things, including those that might upset the other. It’s better to know than to find out in the heat of another moment and have to explain. The opens is still foreign to him, but much like other things he finds himself adjusting.

“I need to speak to Guinevere,” he says, “we need to figure out what our next strike should be.”

She nods and follows him back. Guinevere has taken over the parsonage where the priest lived and turned it into her place. Like many things to do with the Paladins, it’s much larger and more elaborate than one would associate with the Church. There’s room enough for all of them. The port is an easier place to be than the country church. Though it does mean there are more people around. People who don’t seem to care much either way whose in charge, as long as they’re protected and looked after. Pym is Guinevere’s first subject in these lands but now there are others. They are wary of him, but few recognize him enough to be afraid of him.

In many ways that is the strangest part of all of this.

He’s used to people being afraid of him. He’s barely become accustom to some Fey not being afraid of him, but even those who know of the Church don’t immediately associate him with them. It’s a strange feeling. To the people here, they are associated with Guinevere and her banner. It’s an odd thing to have his loyalty displayed and not have it be the thing he always thought it would be. When Pym smiles at the people they pass, they simply smile back. They don’t think of it.

“How are you both not frozen?” Guinevere demands as they both come into the room, “you especially,” she says, fixing him with her gaze.

“I’m Ash Fey,” he points out, “and I have layers on.”

“Not enough if this snow keeps up,” she says, looking back at the map in front of her, “we’ll get you warming clothes. If the snow does keep up though, that means Uther’s going to hole up in one of his cities.”

That catches his interest. If they can head Uther off, they could score the most important victory. Guinevere has taken out her sisters, if she takes Uther out she’ll secure their safety and the future of a kingdom—at least temporarily. If Cumber has any sense he’ll surrender, though from what he remembers Lancelot doubts it. But killing Uther is the practical thing to focus on. Cumber’s kingdom is across the sea and Guinevere knows that isn’t where her destiny lays.

“Uther’s not going to rush back,” Merlin offers, “he’ll want to show off for his people, especially after you took this place. He’s going to want to show off.”

Lancelot looks at the druid from his place by the fire. He’s speaking the way he does out of experience. The disgust in his voice is reserved for the royals, which Lancelot understands Merlin hates more than the Church and the Ice King combined. He feels betrayed by Uther. That and Other is not in his great, golden city. Lancelot knows they can use that to their advantage.

“Which city is he going to?” Guinevere asks.

“Camelot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I live in the U.S. and it's a huge mess right now with the election. I just keep refreshing maps. But I hope to have a normal posting schedule back soon. Thank you for your patience.


	85. Spark: Part 2

“This is unnecessary,” he says from behind the screen.

“Do you want to tell that to Guinevere?” She asks. He doesn’t retort, “she just wants to help, in her own way,” Pym points out.

She hears Lancelot sigh but he doesn’t argue or say he’s going to Guinevere. This is not a battle that honestly needs to be fought. There are those but keeping everyone warm just seems like a practical thing. A necessary thing. Especially if they are out there pretending to just be ordinary travelers. She knows Lancelot prefers his old clothes but in this case they have to be practical. Or he can change when he’s on the road.

He comes out dressed in more layers and looking less than thrilled as he reaches up and scratches the back of his neck.

“Is it itchy?” Pym asks. Lancelot glances at her and drops his hand. She knows that this is a question he’s used to immediately saying no to. But after a moment’s consideration he nods, “alright, go take it off,” she says.

“The itch is nothing,” he says.

“There’s other fabrics,” she replies. He looks at her blankly, “you’re not the first Fey to find wool itchy,” she says, “the Moon Wings wouldn’t go near it.”

He considers for a moment more and then goes back to put on his old clothing. Pym tries not to wonder how much time he’s spent ignoring those itches. Or maybe that didn’t register when he was trying to be uncomfortable. The itch from the wool couldn’t have been worse than the chaffing from the hairshirt. That makes her think of the rest of his back. It’s cold and they’re all in more layers, she hasn’t wanted to cross the line into coddling him or treating him differently after what happened.

“Can you come out here before you put your shirt on?” She calls to him.

He obeys.

She knows he would but she still wonders if there will ever be a day when he doesn’t, when his first instinct isn’t to stand at attention and fall in line. She would say it’s naturally a part of him, but she knows it’s not. It’s just been trained into him. Beaten into him. He stands in front of her and she looks at the scar on his abdomen and the ones on his back. They’ve healed thanks to his gift and she can see he’s learned how to move with the differences. He’s hyper aware of his body, he has to be. It’s lucky he’s able to heal, though she can pick out places where the marks healed enough to leave damage. There are a few places where his skin sags slightly around the marks. His healing seems constrained by the scars that form. They remain unless the wound is fresh or was dealt with iron.

“I’m alright,” he says.

“I know,” she agrees, “you’re also good at hiding when you’re not.”

He presses his lips together and turns his head, almost like a child whose been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Not with you.”

She’s glad she’s behind him when he says it so only she has to know her face gets hot. They don’t hide things from each other, but Lancelot tries to protect them as much as he can. It’s why when he wakes from his nightmares he leaves silently and always touches her shoulder so she knows he’s returned. He always returns. That’s something she’s still not used to, considering how many do not. And something he’s unnervingly aware of, though she hasn’t said the words. She ignores the warmth on her face and finishes looking at his back.

“Are the scars bothering you?” She asks.

“No more than any others,” he says, “scars tend to ache at the change in the weather.”

She’s heard that now, though before it was never something she was fully aware of. People with those kinds of scars didn’t exist in her world. Not when the weather changed like this.

“I can make something to help,” she says, and it doesn’t come out as a question.

“Thank you,” he says and hesitates a moment, “may I put my shirt back on?”

“Oh, yes of course!” She says, feeling her face get even hotter, if possible, “sorry, I didn’t mean to have you standing here getting cold.”

“I’m not,” he says simply, almost smiling as he puts his shirt back on.

He’s alright. She has to remind herself of that. But he’s not, not entirely. How could he be? But even in his warped version of alright, he’s not really that. He holds it together well but she can see he’s tired. He pushes himself through it and she can’t blame him for that instinct but he has to see it’s not working. Not really. She can figure out how to mend a lot of things but what’s been done to him isn’t that. It’s not something she can mend.

He doesn’t pray.

She knows it even though whenever he did it, it was always an intensely private thing. He’ll listen to Bedivere, he’ll hold his Beads and go through the motions, but she’s been disgusted by the Church and his praying enough to know that is not what he’s doing. Not really. She can’t exactly blame him for feeling that way after what he’s been through but he’s guarded his faith so desperately. There’s something tragic in him losing it, even if she thinks they might all be better off without the Church.

“Does it make you itch?” He asks. It takes her a moment to remember what they’re talking about.

“Not really,” she says, “but I never really gave it much thought. Just put on another kirtle.”

He looks at her blankly and she realizes that he has no idea what she’s talking about. It’s almost amusing. Of course he’s got limited experience with women’s clothing. Men’s too if she’s being honest. He’s accustom to showing up, getting his stack of clothes and then going on his way. Nearly everything about his appearance has been decided by someone else for most of his life. She pulls the neck of her dress to the side and brings up the undergarment he’s seen before.

“This is a kirtle,” she explains.

“I gathered,” he remarks and she rolls her eyes at his sarcasm, “now you don’t have to wear the wool either,” he adds.

“Oh I’d rather save it for everyone running around,” she says waving him off. She doesn’t need to worry about things like that, not when there are people who have to be warm to do their best, “I’m fine.”

When she turns he’s much closer.

“Guinevere can get more.”

“I know.”

“You don’t need to be uncomfortable.”

She swallows tightly as she looks up at him. She reminds herself that she knows how tall he is, that there’s no reason for her to be surprised by his height at this point. She was just standing in front of him. He looks at her calmly and she knows that he has a point, she just can’t also justify it. She doesn’t want to cause any trouble or make anyone go out of their way for her.

  
“There’s more important things to focus on,” she says.

“Yes,” he agrees, “but this is an easy thing to fix.”

“I don’t want anyone hurt so I can be comfortable,” she blurts out.

“We have enough coin to buy more fabric,” he counters.

She immediately feels foolish, remembering that they still do. It’s coin from the Church. Her head still spins with how much there was, though she knows the Church has more coin than they know what to do with. She cannot even say that she has a problem with using the coin, it’s already been used and she’s more practical than that. If Lancelot has no issue with it being used, then neither does she. Not if it helps them live, helps them make it through the winter, helps them build a new home.

“You’re right,” she sighs, “if we need more fabric I’ll talk to Guinevere.”

He seems satisfied with that response and Pym shoves aside any emotion to focus on the practicality in his words. He steps back which makes it slightly easier to breathe. She also knows if she insists on him not suffering, he’s going to insist on the same for her. In a strange way she supposes they are both used to pushing their own needs aside. Though his are for a much darker reason.

“Have you ever been to Camelot?” She asks.

“Yes,” he says, “we were summoned briefly when our negotiations started. Father Carden insisted I be there,” he pauses for a moment, “why?”

“Merlin seemed very excited,” she says.

He looks at her for a long, silent moment. Pym fights the irrational urge to squirm at his inspection. He’s very good at seeing past what she usually puts up, but since the revelation of the vision that she kept she feels his eyes on her more. She never intended to hurt the trust that they had built. She finds she doesn’t like it and usually submits to the looks, maybe in some way to show that she is on board with rebuilding their trust.

“I haven’t seen him look excited about a place,” she says, “I think Camelot might be what he saw in his vision. Maybe gold was more metaphorical.”

“No,” he says. She glances at him, “Camelot’s palace is white,” he says, “the stones were treated,” he hesitates for a moment, “it looks gold in the sun.”

Pym doesn’t know why that makes her stomach drop. It shows on her face because Lancelot moves closer. Though this time it’s not difficult to breathe with him so close. It feels better than it did when they were farther apart. Merlin didn’t see her there and that’s not something she necessarily needs to be afraid of, though she finds she is all the same. But Lancelot being there makes her feel better about it. Like maybe one of those alternate explanations is the case.

“It could be somewhere else,” she says.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, “if we cut Uther off before he gets there we won’t need the city,” he says.

“The city is a part of this,” she retorts, “it’s Uther’s capital, we will need it.”

“It’s not a part of this without you.”

He says it with the simplistic assurance of someone who is confident in what they’re talking about. Pym still doesn’t know how he can be. Why he would be willing to have more blind faith when it cost him so much last time. She’s not comfortable with inspiring that feeling in anyone, let alone someone like Lancelot who has killed in it’s name. But at the same time she finds she’s glad one of them believes that the vision is wrong. She would rather put her faith in that than in a seven hundred year old druid whose goal is to die.

“You’re right,” she says, “for the second time. Could you stop being right so frequently?”

She means it as a joke but her voice sounds strained. Even before Lancelot covers her hand with his own. Pym doesn’t know what she’s so flustered about. The city, the reminders of what happened to him—the past few sleepless nights as she’s tried not to think that he could be in trouble. He’s back now. He came back then. She has to keep reminding herself about that fact, though she’s not quite sure why she needs the reassurance when he’s standing right in front of her.

“You’re still nervous,” he points out.

“Yes,” she says, “right again. But I told you I would be the first time you rode off,” she adds, “I won’t always be,” she feels almost guilty at it.

“You didn’t feel like this when you were taken,” he points out.

“That was different. I was barely gone and barely hurt,” she can feel the scar on her palm from pulling the blade out of him, “you almost died.”

“You were in danger,” he counters.

“Barely. None of us are like you, you knew how to find me easily. You knew how to get me back,” she shakes her head, “if we hadn’t gotten to you when we did—“

“You would have found another way,” he says.

She doesn’t know how he has so much faith in them. Now they have coin, a base of operations, something that looks like supplies. Back then they had little more than their wits and a decrepit old church. But he had every faith they would come for him. His ability to have it makes her head spin. She can barely believe he’s here and he’s standing in front of her holding her hand.

“Why does it make you nervous?” He asks.

“I’m not used to people coming back,” she admits, “even when they don’t leave willingly.”

“Gawain came back,” he points out. She shakes her head, knowing he’s right but also knowing that what he came back as is not as simple as her friend, “and Nimue is helping.”

The sound of her friend’s name still brings up a churn of emotions that still feels more like a blow than she wishes it did. She thought she was closer to making peace with what happened. But the appearance of the Hidden, the fact that they now take on the sound of her voice and the minnows, it all brings up a new slew of emotions. She doesn’t know how to deal with them. She doesn’t want to deal with them. The cold brings up a new slew of memories as well. And even though she’s alright with the cold, she’s not on her own, it still feels painful.

“Nimue used to help us during the winter,” she admits, “she’d make sure we got better deals for what we sold or help me buy warmer fabric,” she shrugs, “she’d help us make sure our crops would last longer than they should have, since it was just me to help my parents harvest,” she looks at him, “I think the cold just makes me miss her. I didn’t think a winter would happen so soon without her around, though if she had her way she’d be gone by now regardless of you all.”

The fact that it’s nearly been half a year without her makes Pym’s head spin. It would be around the time the ship would come to carry her off anyway, though some childish part of Pym thinks maybe she would have been able to change Nimue’s mind by now. Instead Nimue’s become one with the water and the only one of them whose been carried off on a ship is, well, her. She looks at Lancelot, it’s hard to talk about Nimue without it sounding like it is his fault. How is she supposed to reject one destiny and console herself with another? But he doesn’t look upset or like she’s accusing him of anything. Once again it seems like he can separate this mess much better than she is capable of. When he guides her to sit in front of the fire, she goes willingly.

“Tell me about how you spent your winters,” he says.

“It’s silly,” she protests, “I’m sure yours were much worse.”

“Probably,” he agrees, “how did you spend yours?”

She glances away, finding herself stupidly charmed none the less. Even though he’s probably only interested because this is another new thing he’s facing. She doesn’t even want to think about the ways Father Carden equated suffering and cleansing with the bitter cold that will soon be upon them. Only that maybe the cold helped numb Lancelot’s back sometimes.

“You know we’re both probably at a loss,” she admits, “the Raiders are better suited to this than my family was. Or any Fey.”  
  
“Well they’re from the Ice Kingdom,” he points out.

“So how did they spend it?” She asks, “you’ve been around them in winter.”

“Tell me about the Fey first,” he says.

“You’re not going to let me avoid the topic?” She asks.

“You seem to feel better after you talk,” he points out.

She sighs and tucks her hair behind her ear, returning her hand to his. She has no reason to hide it and someone else should know.

“It was a village effort, we’d start getting ready during summer really. We’d harvest fruit to preserve it--“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fans have put together a petition to get attention for the second season. If you want to do something to help the petition is [HERE](https://www.change.org/p/netflix-renew-netflix-s-cursed-for-season-2?utm_content=cl_sharecopy_25699851_en-US%3A2&recruited_by_id=78b30800-2055-11eb-acab-318eac50c48a&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=copylink&utm_campaign=psf_combo_share_initial&utm_term=share_petition)
> 
> I don't know why people think this is the last book but it's not. I haven't said how many books this will be. However, I cannot believe this is 85 chapters. Thank you so much for the support you've shown me and this fic, it is beyond humbling. I know updates have been slightly delayed due to outside circumstances and I just wanted to say thank you for not giving up. I would love your feedback on the chapter. Thank you to those who commented/kudos'ed/messaged me on Tumblr! Onwards!


	86. Spark: Part 3

Sparring with Bedivdere has a different rhythm than anyone else.

He’s remained helpful and Guinevere has grudgingly agreed he’s allowed to use weapons, under heavy supervision. Mostly it’s sparring. On the rare times that sparring comes before he helps Tristain, she watches them with a mix of disdain and huger. She is allowed to be unshackled and she’s been allowed to keep her hawks, but weapons are not permitted for her. Which is another blow Lancelot has inadvertently dealt. It’s not a lack of loyalty, it’s a lack of emotion and, more importantly, a lack of control over her Fire. When he spars with Bedivere it feels more familiar than anything in this place. It’s a reminder of how new things are here, even if they no longer regularly feel strange.

“You’ve gotten faster,” Bedivere remarks.

“Or, you’ve gotten slower,” Lancelot offers.

“I think I may have preferred it when you didn’t talk,” Bedivere points out.

Lancelot smirks and shrugs as they meet again. Bedivere is doing what they have been trained to and trying to throw him off in a different way. It’s what he does without thinking and what Tristain and Abbott Wicklow try to do. It’s more a sign that Lancelot is right. Though Lancelot knows that Bedivere’s balance has been thrown off from his Paladin days and there is a difference between his life now and the life of someone constantly at war or training. Still Bedivere only seems slightly perturbed by getting beaten and manages to hold his own. In a fight against anyone else, Lancelot imagines he would have little trouble winning. It makes Lancelot morbidly curious at how Bedivere can be calm at the loss of his stamina. Just the idea of it makes panic start in him. Even when he’s been forbidden from direct fighting he’s been exercising on his own or with Squirrel.

“It’s been a while since you fought a Paladin.”

“You’re not a Paladin anymore,” Bedivere points out, “and no. I suppose they saw no sense in keeping my skills up to Paladin standards,” Lancelot looks at him curiously, “well they were clearly hoping I would die.”

“Those sound like excuses,” Lancelot says.

“Not at all,” Bedivere replies, “I chose the thing that would let me live longer.”

Lancelot steps back and looks at him.

“What do you mean?”

Bedivere frowns but immediately pulls his blade back as well. He softens at Lancelot’s curiosity and Lancelot finds it difficult not to declare this over and turn away.

“I needed the element of surprise,” Bedivere says, “and in the other Churches I was caretaker for, there were people. They felt more comfortable if I wasn’t walking around like I might run them through if they didn’t say their prayers right.”

Lancelot pushes aside the part of him that wants to argue not saying them correctly was a sign of being unfaithful. He forces himself to listen to what Bedivere is saying. He doesn’t know how he’s managed to not make the majority of people in this place afraid of him, but it’s oddly nice to be able to walk down the streets without the whispers and stares following him. There are stares, to be sure, but they are because he’s an Ash Fey. Not because he’s a monster. There’s an advantage in people not being afraid of him. It will also make life easier on Squirrel, Pym and even Guinevere as she continues to associate with him. He owes it to them to see how he can do that.

But they are not the people he can ask.

“Were you unarmed?” He asks.

“Only when I needed to be,” Bedivere says, “I wasn’t looking to get killed. Believe it or not, the Church is not loved in every place.”

Lancelot means to ask more about what he did but he gets distracted by Bedivere’s words. Or rather, he recognizes there is something here useful to Guinevere. In a way he may not have seen before. Places that are rumored to have an issue with the church like he’s describing are prime for being brought to their cause. Or will be. But they are also places that may be on Uther’s journey. Not for Uther to go into but for them to be cleansed by the Church. It would send a message to Uther that the Paladins are still a force worth being allied with and quell anyone who may be questioning their loyalties.

“Those places, are they between here and Camelot?” He asks. Bedivere catches his breath and Lancelot frowns at the delay, but he nods, “they may be targets for the Paladins.”

“I doubt that,” Bedivere says.

“They’re going to realize what I did to the ship that was sent for me,” he points out.

“You put too much in their faith,” Bedivere says.

“I would think that if they hadn’t seen the Fire,” Lancelot reminds him. Bedivere sighs and nods in agreement, “they’ll piece together you’re on our side too. They’ll want to punish you for it,” he explains, “Is there anyone there who can be used against you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is there anyone you care about?” Lancelot asks.

“I took a vow of celibacy,” Bedivere sputters, “A vow I still uphold. They would come for everyone,” he says, “if I had someone waiting for me, wouldn’t I have said something by now?”

Lancelot nods. That complicates things. It would be easier if he had a few targets. If they want to get to him they will burn down the entire town. The Paladins have the ability to do it. Protecting the entire town will take more of their resources. Bedivere is still looking confused at the line of questioning. Lancelot doesn’t think the question is foolish. The Pope has pushed for celibacy among the clergy but the Paladins have always been warriors first. And some sins have been deemed more forgivable than others. Bedivere is a rare good man among the Paladins, that doesn’t mean that his views are shared.

“You may have. You may also have seen the benefit in proving your loyalty. You wouldn’t have seen them much if you were traveling.”

“If I had a reason to stay in these places I wouldn’t have been traveling,” he argues, “that’s why I took the vow.”

“You wouldn’t be the first Paladin to break one.”

Bedivere cannot argue with that and his face falls. Lancelot wishes it was not true. He wishes for many things. But it is and the Paladins have done terrible things. Things that have been in direct contradiction to many of their vows. Father would tell him that they were not demon born, that he needed to be held to a stricter standard if there was any hope of him finding Salvation. But Bedivere held more than most. His crime was choosing the word of God over the word of a man, breaking the vows of a soldier, not those of a holy man.

“But I believe you if you say you didn’t,” he adds.

“I didn’t,” Bedivere repeats, “I’ve given my life to God,” he hesitates for a moment, “not that there is anything wrong with choosing a different path—“

“You need to tell Guinevere about the villages,” Lancelot cuts in.

  
“I can mark them on the map. Merlin will have a better idea of his route,” he says, “we can pick this up later.”  
  
Bedivere goes to speak to Guinevere. Lancelot knows he should go with him, but he heads to the stables instead. He’s following some instinct and as he gets closer, he sees that he was right to do so. Squirrel is already at the barn, ready to lead the horse out. The horse seems less than enthusiastic at the idea. Unlike Squirrel, Lancelot isn’t dressed for the increased snow that’s fallen. But the cold bothers him even less than it did before he underwent the Ash Folk ritual. Squirrel gives the horse’s reins a final tug and then swears in boyish frustration.

“Don’t force it,” he says.

Squirrel jumps and turns to him. Lancelot reaches out and touches the horse who immediately leans against his hand. The horse being afraid of the snow isn’t something troubling, Lancelot’s seen bravery from him that he wouldn’t expect from any but Goliath. He takes the reins and guides him forward, getting him a few steps closer before he backs up. Lancelot keeps a hand on the reins and reaches down, holding his other above the ground and summoning his Fire. The snow melts and when he feels the reins relax, he leads him out a bit further. 

“Let him get used to it,” he says to Squirrel, “put your hand above mine.”

Squirrel grips the reins above his hand, looking up from the horse to him. Lancelot glances down at him before looking purposefully back at the horse. Squirrel sighs at the signal and looks at the horse himself. Lancelot relaxes his grip on the reins, letting Squirrel be the one who holds him and just keeping his hand there as a safety measure. Squirrel is still a boy and however strong he is in some regards, he does not know how to handle the spooked horse from the ground.

“Talk to him,” Lancelot says to Squirrel.

“You’re doing great,” Squirrel says. The horse huffs.

“Softer,” Lancelot says.

“You’re doing great,” Squirrel says, lowering and softening his voice in a way that makes Lancelot think he’s being imitated, “you’re a very brave horse. This is way less scary than when he was blowing up trees. You were brave then, you’re brave now.”

Squirrel takes a step back further. The horse hesitates for a moment before Squirrel makes a noise of encouragement and then he takes a tentative step forward. Lancelot manages to keep Squirrel silent before he can whoop with pure joy. When the horse ducks down and investigates the snow, he loosens his grasp so Squirrel is the only one holding the reins. The moment he realizes it’s just him holding the reins, he stands taller and even reaches out to gently pet the horse’s neck.

“Bring him back inside for now,” Lancelot says, “let him get used to it gradually.”

“Come on,” Squirrel says, leading the horse back into the stables. He guides him back into his stall and the horse lowers his head to be pet, “you were very brave,” he says. He looks at Lancelot, “is Goliath afraid of anything?”

Lancelot thinks back to when Goliath was a foal with wobbly legs. He remembers Father telling him that it would be a miracle if he survived, that it would be God’s will. Lancelot thinks if there was anything that made him go against Father between being split by the sword and running away, it was probably with Goliath. God was not the one who nursed him with a bottle or taught him not to be afraid. God was not the one who pulled him back all the times Lancelot did, who trained him until the skinny, small foal who no-one thought would make it through the night was as good a horse as the Paladins had ever produced.

“He was when he was young,” Lancelot says.

“Where’d you learn to train him?”

“I watched the older Paladins work with their horses,” he says, “though in many ways they taught me what not to do.”

Squirrel seems relieved and Lancelot cannot blame him for that. It makes him feel embarrassed about all the things he did do. But he was able to protect Goliath from the cruel training they subjected everything to. He just wishes he had done it with more things.

“He’ll be braver as he does more,” Lancelot adds, “don’t forget Gawain chose him. You’ll do him proud training him.”

“Yeah, I will,” Squirrel says.

“How are you feeling about the winter?” He asks.

Squirrel seems less confused than he was expecting and shrugs.

“Alright,” he says and doesn’t immediately elaborate.

“Is there something—“

“I miss hunting with my father,” Squirrel says, “we’d go out and get the biggest deer we could find and bring it back. Mom would be so proud of us. And we’d have meat for a long time. We’d go sell it at the market too.”

Lancelot is surprised at how central the marketplace seems to be for both of them. How much trading is and bartering was done. He doesn’t remember being at markets except to pass through. He remembers the hushed silence as people would see those from the Church coming. He remembers hearing it all decried as sin, even though such a pronouncement seemed ridiculous to him. Even then.

“Is there a market happening here?” He asks Squirrel.

“Nah, the snow came too soon. Happens sometimes. I think we’re all set though.”

Lancelot nods, they’re set but it’s a missed tradition. If there’s something he understands it’s that. He looks out the window at the ground and begins to think. Clearing the snow and keeping people warm won’t be a problem. It could get Guinevere some good exposure to her subjects as well. But for that kind of thing, he knows there’s only one person to talk to.

“Let’s go talk to Arthur,” he says to Squirrel.

“About what?”

“We may be able to put on a market,” he says.

“Really?!” Squirrel looks excited in a way that Lancelot hasn’t seen in a while. That tells him more than anything that this might be a good endeavor, “I guess the snow’s not a problem for you. It’s handy having an Ash Fey around.”

Lancelot rolls his eyes and nudges him along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. I'm most frequently on my Tumblr [venomrps](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/), though I have a writing one called [planetsam](https://planetsam.tumblr.com/). Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter! Onwards!


	87. Spark: Part 4

Pym is surprised when the idea is brought up, but it’s not an unpleasant one

It feels foolish to miss something like the marketplace. It may hurt without Nimue there, but it’s one of the few things that she thinks might not. She has to remind herself that they are in a war for survival, that there are reasons why it would be foolish, that she should keep a clear head and weigh this out properly. But she can’t deny there’s excitement in her as well. Guinevere listens and Pym tries to keep her face blank, but when their eyes meet Guinevere makes a noise and leans back.

“You don’t think the people here are ready for winter?”

“They are,” Lancelot says.

“But the frost came early,” Arthur adds, “being under new leadership is different. This would give them a chance to uphold something,” he says, “it would also let us see how they are feeling.”

Guinevere is quiet for a moment and then nods.

“Take Tristain with you when you clear the square. See how she gets on with her Fire in a controlled place,” Guinevere looks over at her, “and try not to get too distracted. You’re a Raider, we don’t barter.”

“I’m not distracted!” Pym protests, feeling her face grown warm. She looks down at her fingertips and is glad that being a Raider isn’t all she is. She likes the practice of haggling in the marketplace, it feels like one of the skills she’s quite good at, “we shouldn’t raid the marketplace either.”

“What was that?”

“I said there’s nothing wrong with haggling,” she replies, “I’ll come with you and help with Tristain,” she says quickly to Lancelot.

He nods and waits for her as she comes over to him, aware that behind her Guinevere is probably rolling her eyes. Pym ignores the desire to turn and check and walks to Lancelot. Having more freedom means there’s a handful of places Tristain might be, but Lancelot leads her to the most obvious. The chapel is small but it’s still a chapel. Tristain is kneeling in one of the pews, head bowed and hands clasped. The questions of whether or not Lancelot is jealous of her ability to still pray burns in Pym’s throat, but she swallows it down. He motions for her to stop and they both wait as Tristain purposefully finishes and then stands and moves towards them, careful not to fully show her back to the Cross. Pym sees the amber colored beads as she slips them around her wrist.

“We’re going to clear the square for a market,” he says, “this will be a good opportunity for you to practice your Fire,” she glances between them, the sarcasm falling off her face.

“No chains?”

“That would make it difficult,” Lancelot says dryly.

Tristain rolls her eyes, her usual displeasure coming back to her face.

“Well then lead the way.”

Pym looks at Lancelot as Tristain walks in front of them. He gives her a look of pure exasperation and she has to turn her head not to smile at it. She’s sure that she and Squirrel wormed their way under his skin a long time ago, but there’s something almost endearing about seeing him react to other people doing the same thing. She can see his annoyance, but it’s the kind of annoyance that little ones are uniquely capable of bringing up. Despite her best efforts to look away she finds herself looking back at him as they get their cloaks and head to the square.

“You look like Gawain when Squirrel would appear places,” she remarks.

“Does that make me Squirrel?” Tristain cuts in.

“I guess,” Pym admits.

“There are worse things to be,” she says with a shrug, turning her attention forward.

Lancelot glares at the back of her head. Tristain has not earned the privilege of a blade with any regularity. She’s barely earned the right to have her prayer beads and her birds. As a result her hair has grown though it puffs oddly with the pieces at the crown of her head. They don’t yet reach the length needed to be caught in her braid. Lancelot’s hair has seen more growth, but it hasn’t healed around the scar the way he wants it to. She wishes that it had. She wishes that any of this was easier than it’s turned out to be.

“Bedivere says you went to the stables,” she says and hesitates before asking, “is everything alright?”

“Yes,” he replies, “Squirrel was working with his mount. He’s afraid of the snow.”

“He was doing it alone?” She asks quickly, thinking of how small Squirrel is and how dangerous nervous horses can be.

“No,” Lancelot says. She glances at him curiously, “I was with him.”

Pym stares at him before rolling her eyes at his response and the joke he’s making. Of course he was there and Squirrel was alright, but she wonders how far he made it out of the stables. Squirrel’s future horse has more bravery than she’s seen from most horses, but none are as brave and well trained as Goliath. She knows that’s because of Lancelot. That if anyone can teach Squirrel how to work with the horse, it’s him.

“I guess it was only a matter of time before he started getting into trouble again,” she says.

“He’ll be fine,” Lancelot says.

“I know,” she sighs.

Tristain echoes the sigh loudly and glances back at the two of them, her eyes narrowed and calculating. Pym gives her a questioning look and she shrugs, turning back ahead. Pym feels Lancelot looking between the two of them but she shakes her head. She has no idea what Tristain is inferring from their conversation, except that Squirrel is a troublemaker. She has to remind herself that Squirrel isn’t worth much to the Trinity Guard. And even if he was, it’s not enough to get her back in their good graces. Nothing is. And Tristain is many things but she’s not stupid. The snow that’s covering the ground is not that deep, but ice is on the square. Tristain looks at it and then at him.

“What?” Lancelot asks.

“We shouldn’t use Fey Fire,” she says, “regular fire will be fine.”

“You need the practice,” he says. She folds her arms, “stop making excuses.”

“I am not,” she hisses, “using Fey Fire like this—“

“Is what we did back on the island,” he cuts in, “it’s what we did here before and Guinevere has ordered it.”

“Because you’re so good at following orders,” she retorts.

“Alright, enough,” Pym says, cutting in between the pair of them. Lancelot is more in control but they don’t need either of them losing it at the moment. Tristain has yet to produce Fire without touching something green. Pym doubts it will be because Lancelot infuriates her—only because if that was enough, she’s certain that it would have happened by now. Still it’s best not to tempt fate, “if you want any privacy now is the best time to do it. I’ll turn my back—“

“You aren’t the problem,” Tristain says, “how are we even going to do this?”

“Here,” Lancelot says, handing her a branch.

She looks from the branch to him and then back again. She takes it from him and looks at it and then back to him. Pym forces herself to breathe as she stands there looking between them, waiting for something to happen. It was the news that the closest thing he knew to a father was dead that triggered Lancelot using the Fire. She’s not sure what is supposed to do it for Tristain but this isn’t it. If she’s being honest, Tristain standing in front of Lancelot with a branch is also not something she’s anxious to have drag on.

“This isn’t working,” Tristain snaps, “and people are going to look.”

“Keep holding it,” he says.

She does and he reaches up, touching the top of it. Tristain’s jaw clenches and Pym can see the mix of discomfort and fear that she hasn’t seen so openly in a long time. She’s about to ask why when she sees the lighter Flame split the branch from the point Tristain is holding. As though Lancelot’s Fire is calling to hers. Lancelot’s face remains impassive. But that’s not new. He’s much better at it, his face has always been more exposed whereas Tristain has had the luxury of a mask. The wood splits and she drops the branch. It’s ash by the time it hits the ground. Dangerous or not, Pym is immediately there.

“Let me see your hand,” she says.

“It’s fine,” Tristain snaps.

“Tristain.”

The Ash Fey looks at her for a moment before shoving her hand at her. She wonders if all the Ash Folk are like this or if it’s just those who have been warped by the Church. Tristain looks un-remorseful, almost calm and Pym turns her hand over.

Wood is embedded in her palm.

“This is not fine,” she says.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Tristain says almost smugly, glancing between them.

“I know how you feel about pain,” Pym shoots back, “we both do,” she looks over at the nearest wall, “you deal with the ice,” she says to Lancelot, “come here and let me fix your hand. If you heal with the wood in it—“

“You’ll just have to cut it out. I’ve heard,” Tristain says.

Pym holds her hand and leads her to a step, pulling it into her lap. She has small tweezers on her and sets about removing the splinters from Tristain’s hand. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the dark green Fire that Lancelot uses to carefully melt the ice and evaporate the water, leaving the dry ground behind. She’s nearly got all of the wood out when he’s done and comes over to her.

“Could you get us something to put the dirt in?” She asks.

He fills a small bag and comes back over. Pym smiles her thanks and looks at Tristain. She puts her hand into the bag and a moment later it’s filled with ash as she pulls her hand out and flexes the healed limb.

“Well if I can ever use a sword again I’ll be prepared,” she says.

“What happened?”

They turn as Morgana walks towards them purposefully, her eyes focused on Tristain. She’s walking which would look normal, if not for the elaborate black dress she wears and the veil that covers her hair. Though Lancelot has killed more people than everyone in the city, it’s Morgana they seem wary of. If it bothers her, she doesn’t seem to care as she strides over to them. Tristain rolls her eyes in response to the question and gets to her feet like this is an old dance they’ve done before.

“Nothing,” she says.

“What happened?” She repeats, turning to both of them.

Pym doesn’t feel right saying.

“Training incident,” Lancelot says, “she’s been seen by Pym.”

“Yes, my eyes work,” Morgana says, looking at Tristain.

“Are you here to tell me I’m dying of an infection?” Tristain asks.

“If I was, I wouldn’t have walked,” Morgana says.

“Right, because it ‘draws you in’—“

“Can you two stop?” Pym asks abruptly, unable to deal with their squabbling, “this is supposed to be something normal for everyone.”

There’s a plea in her tone that makes them stop and look at her, which is good because she has no business saying that word. Not when she’s trying to break up what is happening between an incredibly powerful sorceress and a very rare Ash Fey. Morgana holds her gaze for a moment and then snatches Tristain’s hand. The Ash Fey jumps but she just turns her palm over and looks at her hand. Tristain lets her look for longer than Pym would expect before snatching her hand back.

“I can heal,” Tristain says, folding her arms. Morgana raises an unimpressed eyebrow and gives a sound of disgust at her behavior before looking around.

“How are they going to know it’s a market?” She asks.

“Arthur and Father Bedivere said they could spread the word,” Pym says, “it’s not supposed to snow for another day.”

“If it does, it’s not a problem,” Lancelot reminds her.

Pym looks at him and nods, not sure why she feels nervous that this won’t happen. Maybe there’s no reason for it to occur. She can see people though, starting to look and come to investigate. For once Lancelot is not the most intimidating one. But still she smiles to hopefully mitigate some of the intimidation from Tristain and Morgana.

“Let’s go back to Guinevere,” Morgana says abruptly and Pym hopes that reading thoughts isn’t one of her talents.

“Fine,” Tristain says.

“You did well,” Lancelot tells her.

“I did nothing,” she retorts.

“That’s well,” he says.

She looks at him quietly for a moment and then jerks her head in an approximation of a nod and follows Morgana as they head back. Lancelot seems almost relieved to be out of her presence. Pym can’t blame him. It’s not Tristain necessarily but everything with the Ash Folk and the Church seems to have become a raw wound again, one he is trying to hold together with sheer will. Even if it doesn’t work like that.

“You’re right,” she says, drawing him back to reality with her, “she did do well,” he nods, “I didn’t have to cut any arrows out of her.”

His head snaps towards her and she shrugs, looking back at him. His eyes scan her face though he quickly sees she’s teasing him. He opens his mouth and then presses his lips together, looking around at the people going by. He seems to relax when he sees them and though things are awful, Pym is glad that they don’t all appear as threats. She’s sure somewhere in his head they do, but he doesn’t go tense in those subtle, instinctive ways like he usually does.

“She would be in good hands if she did,” he says.

Pym feels her face get hot.

“Adequate hands,” she corrects, “should we see if people need help with their stalls?” He nods, “who gave you the idea for this anyway?” She asks.

“You and Squirrel,” he says, “you missed it and it seemed like a good way to bring people together.”

She doesn’t know why she finds that surprising. Maybe because she never expected Squirrel to admit he liked seeing everyone at the market. He always complained about how he would rather be in the woods, but in that half hearted way that only seemed to happen when he wasn’t occupied by something else. She knows that Lancelot is a good listener and he’s better at giving the people he serves what they want, but she finds herself somewhat touched by him taking the idea and running with it like this.

“Thank you,” she says.

He holds her gaze for a long moment, his cheeks coloring and then nods quickly.

“Let’s go see about helping,” he agrees.

She tucks her hair behind her ear and nods in return, following him and hoping that they both don’t look too flushed to be of any use.

Somehow she doesn’t think it will be a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages, they mean so much. This is the part with the most anticipation for me because we are so close to some fluff and Camelot and some other exciting things happening. So your feedback helps me push through it. Please let me know what you thought about the chapter and I'll see you in the next one!


	88. Spark: Part 5

“If these people are going to be my subjects they are going to get used to me as myself. That is the end of it!”

Lancelot winces as the door opens, permitting them entry. Guinevere is standing there fastening a sword about her waist. She looks very similar but a bit more polished, like her leather has been cleaned recently along with the rest of her. The lines around her eyes are freshly black and her jewelry has been shined. She looks nice. Nicer, he thinks, than in the gown that seems to have been the subject of an argument. Still when she holds out her hand, Pym looks relieved to shove a heavy, ornate, fur trimmed cloak into it.

“Not a word,” Guinevere warns, “from any of you.”

“We were just going to say you looked nice,” Arthur says.

Pym turns her head away as Guinevere gives him a look of pure loathing. He knows she needs to stand out, Guinevere knows it as well. So does Arthur. But Lancelot can see how being herself is also important. If they are trying to build a world where they can all coexist, there has to be room for someone like Guinevere. She swings her head towards him and her eyes narrow.

“Lose the sword,” she says. He raises his eyebrows, “you’re not going as my guard.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” she says.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, not liking the way that everyone trades looks, “for this.”

“I know you are,” she says, “so lose the sword.”

“Why?”

“Are you questioning me?” She asks. He glances down but nods, “because you haven’t been to one of these before without planning to murder someone or do something nefarious for the Church,” she says.

Lancelot looks at Pym who has no response for that, but doesn’t seem to be the one who said it. The one who did that is very clearly Bedivere who seems to be profoundly interested in the floor all of a sudden. Though Lancelot imagines there was no great strain to put the two together. The market does not sound fun, he thought that he would go there with some amount of familiarity but Guinevere will hear nothing of it. Even when Arthur opens his mouth. She holds her hand up to silence him.

“I shouldn’t have to order you to go and enjoy yourself but if I do,” she trails off almost threateningly and he glares back, “fine. Go enjoy yourself. Pym make sure he follows that order.”

Pym opens her mouth and then blows out a breath, nodding her head. Guinevere turns away, signaling their conversation is over. Lancelot reminds himself that she means well, though he would rather be helping guard her than going to the market and wandering around like he hasn’t killed the relatives of people there. But it will let him do more to ensure Pym’s safety. She looks at him apologetically as she comes over.

“I didn’t know she was going to do that,” she says.

“It’s fine,” he tells her.

“You might enjoy it?” She offers, but it sounds so much like a question he finds himself nodding. Even if he doubts that’s the case, “I’m sure Guinevere will be alright.”

“She needs more guards,” he says, “this is foolish. I’m fine.”

“It’s not a comment on your skills,” Pym says, thought the way her eyebrows draw together says she’s unsure, “I think she’s trying to be a good friend. Like with the clothes. Maybe let her practice?”

Lancelot sighs and nods, knowing that he and Guinevere have the need for practice in this area. Him moreso. But she cannot go around threatening people to get what she wants. He dislikes removing his swords but consoles himself with a handful of smaller ones tucked around him and by taking the shorter blade. He’s gone months without the bigger one, he can survive one trip to the market.

Returning to the square means seeing more people. Them not being afraid means they don’t give him a wide berth. It’s inevitable that someone will eventually bump into them, but he’s not expecting it to be a woman half dragging a child and carrying a basket full of eggs. She trips into him and only his training lets him keep her from falling and catch her basket to keep her eggs from splattering over the ground.

“So sorry!” The woman chokes out, face red.

“I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Lancelot lies and returns the basket he caught when she collided with him. Relief shines on her face as she takes it back.

“Thank you sir,” she says.

He nods and she hurries on her way, giving another apology as she does. Next to him Pym smiles as she takes off for the marketplace. There’s something soft and sympathetic as she does, like she remembers how much a basket of eggs can sell for and how far that will get her through the winter.

“That was nice of you,” she says when the woman is out of earshot.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

Pym nods and he looks at the crowd they are about to join. They’re villagers, being in a port means there’s more of a variety than he would have originally anticipated, but they are all here with the same goal I mind. There are a handful of Fey there and he can pick out their scents, but the overwhelming number are human. He has to push everything into it’s box and focus before they get properly into it.

“We can leave whenever you want,” Pym reminds him.

He nods. He knows they can. Though he originally though he would be there to guard Guinevere, she’s forbidden him from doing so unless things go horribly wrong. She doesn’t even say it’s because of some reason they know is a lie. She very clearly says it’s his first time as at one of these things without ulterior motivation and he should experience it. He knows he’s supposed to be grateful but the entire thing feels strange.

“It’s going to be fine,” he assures her.

“Of course it is,” she says smiling, “let’s go.”

It is not fine.

It turns out that even without Fey, the smells alone threaten to overpower him. He’s used to going into the market, getting what he needs and leaving. Not wandering around. There’s people selling meat and herbs and all manner of things. It all must have something Fey mixed in somewhere because the smell is much more heightened than he would like. He’s not in direct danger, none of them are. But the entire thing makes him feel oddly dizzy.

He figures it’s best to let Pym go ahead and trail her so she doesn’t think anything is wrong. She’s excited in a way that he hasn’t seen in a while and ruining it isn’t an option. He knows she wouldn’t blame him for it but it would be ruined all the same. He pretends to look at something, not with enough interest that the owner will think it’s a sale but enough so that he can put some distance between them. Just enough so that if he needs to slip further away he can, though not far enough that he would lose her scent. Not that he thinks such a thing is truly possible.

“Lancelot?” He fights the urge to curse at the sound of his name as she appears next to him. She looks up at him and smiles at the stall owner before grabbing his hand.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“You’ve been ‘fine’ for a while,” she retorts and he knew he wasn’t doing as good of a job hiding it as he thought, “come on.”

He doesn’t fight as she leads him to a pocket of a building without so many people and smells. He picks up the lingering smell of Tristain’s blood and realizes that she probably scouted this spot out earlier. The high walls mean he doesn’t need to sit down, though he finds himself doing it anyway as she sits next to him. Before he can ask what she’s doing, she motions for him to look at her and presses her fingertips to the pressure points. It’s like being back on the boat, except he knows what to expect and she’s gotten stronger in her fingertips. The sudden absence of nausea is nearly crippling in it’s relief.

“Better?” She asks.

It’s a loaded term, he thinks they all know that none of them are fine. But much to his frustration, he finds he is less fine than he wishes. Though none of them bring attention to it, they all seem aware. Especially the person he sleeps next to. She lowers the hand from his ear.

“I’m trying,” he says, wondering why the admission feels guilty when it’s the closest he’s come to being honest. At least out loud. They both know this isn’t about the market, though that’s embarrassing enough.

“You don’t have to be better—“ she starts.

“I’ve never had to get better,” he says. She stares at him, “not in this way,” he continues, “it’s never been something anyone cared about.”

He doesn’t know how to explain it better, but he finds he’s desperate to have her understand. He’s not sure he’s ever been desperate for someone to understand a weakness of his since he was a small boy who didn’t want to kill an animal. But when she does, when her hand covers his, he finds he’s profoundly relieved. Even as another part of him screams that this is a weakness he shouldn’t show. It’s a smaller, softer part than it ever has been. He knows it’s not true.

“We care—“ she starts, “I care,” she corrects, “it’s alright that you’re not better, it’s not something to be ashamed of.”

“You are,” he points out.

“Well it seems silly for me to be upset,” she says, “I didn’t get kidnapped like that. And don’t say our kidnappings were the same. You got to me before anything bad happened.”

He thinks back to it and the sight of that Guard, of Iris, with her blade against Pym’s neck. Putting the arrow through Iris’ neck was not difficult, even with how close they were. Trusting that Pym would be able to keep the blade from cutting her throat was harder, but he had no other choice. He hand’t been expecting Pym to hold Iris’ hand as she died, to show her anything resembling kindness. He doesn’t even want to think what the world would be without Pym in it.

“As did you,” he says.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she says, her thumb brushing the hatch mark scar that faintly lays on his skin. It’s barely visible, but he has no doubt she knows most of them. “So I don’t care about the market. I just wanted to show it to you.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Give me the salts,” he says.

“Lancelot—“

He looks at her and she sighs, but when she reaches into her bag it’s a tin.

“I thought the smells might bother you,” she says, “this seemed—kinder than those salts.”

The smell is kinder than the salts. Those mask the smell of anything but they are not something he is particularly fond of. Whatever is in the tin that he can touch under his nose smells sharp and clean and similar to the polish that he uses on Goliath’s tack. It’s not an unpleasant smell.

“Tell me if it gets bad again?” She says.

He nods, this time he means it.

And somehow, between what she’s done with the pressure points and what’s under his nose, it is better. Alone, he thinks it would be miserable but next to her, it’s almost pleasant. She takes him to different booths and several people greet them with a vague but welcoming recognition. It’s enough to see her looking at various things and relaxing as they wander through. There’s a familiarity in how she moves that he doesn’t usually see in the grander places they stay with Guinevere. It’s worth the salve under his nose and the strangeness in being here to see.

“Come here,” she says, pulling him over one of the stalls. She purchases some small rolls and tears it in half with surprising ease, “try this. It’ll work with what you have under your nose, I promise.”

He looks from it to her and she pulls off a corner of one, eating it. When he glances around it doesn’t seem like there’s a particular way to eat any of this food and takes some. Sweet and honey explodes on his tongue, along with something richer. There’s a paste in the middle. He doesn’t recognize what it’s made of but it’s rich and earthy. He thinks that if he didn’t have the slave under his nose, it might all overwhelm him again but the lack of taste makes it manageable.

“Good, right?” Pym says.

He nods.

“It’s like your bread,” he tells her.

“It’s a similar recipe,” she says, “but this is fried. And it’s filled with figs. They only get ripe at the end of the season,” she licks her thumb, “Nimue and I used to save all of our coins and buy these.”

He can see why they would be a priority.

He’s managed to skirt most people who would bump into them, but bumping into people seems to be half the reason this exists. He doesn’t think much of the shoulders that touch his, though when they’re done with the food he’s almost dizzy with the sweet but glad for the fact that he and Pym can join hands again.

He doesn’t focus on someone bumping into him until something is dropped into his palm.

He goes to reverse the grip but they’re gone faster than he expected. Pym immediately knows that something is wrong. Lancelot looks at giving chase but separating them could very easily be their intention. But when he opens his hand he doesn’t think that was it at all. He looks back at the crowd but he knows instinctively that whoever he just encountered is very good at evading.

“What is it?” Pym asks, stepping closer.

It’s a pebble.

It’s from the beach.

Pym immediately recognizes it. Lancelot feels the weight of the stone. He tries to think about anything he caught from the person who dropped it into his hand, but the image escapes him. He sees more with his nose than he does with his eyes. And his nose is compromised. Pym looks up from the stone to him and Lancelot closes his hand around it.

“Is it the Church?” She asks.

“No,” he says, “they would announce their presence.”

Pym runs her tongue over her bottom lip, looking around and raising her hand to shield her eyes. It’s not terribly sunny out and he realizes that she’s showing her fingertips purposefully. Maybe in the hopes that whoever did this will show themselves.

“Come on,” he says, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and steering them away from the throng of people. When he wipes under his nose and inhales, he already knows that he won’t be able to smell anything that will tell him who it is. Much as he may hope otherwise, “they’re gone.”

“We can look for them,” she says.

“No,” he tells her. She looks surprised at his refusal, “this wasn’t for me to look for them,” he says.

“How do you know?”

He can’t explain how he does but she seems to understand that. This is a signal that someone knows he went to the island, they know what the stones mean. They know who he is. He knows where his mind wants to run with that but he pulls it back. If it is who he hopes, what on earth would they think of him? How true is it that all Fey are brothers, when one has done the things he has?

“Lancelot,” Pym touches his hand and draws him back to the present.

He looks at her and she smiles encouragingly at him. She’s a reminder that there could be a chance, even a slight one, that there could be forgiveness. One day. But the sound of fanfare draws him back to the fact that one day is not today.

“It’s a signal,” he says, “I—“ He glances at her fingertips, “we’re being watched,” he corrects.

She looks nervous for a moment and he takes her hand, watching her relax and nod.

“Alright,” she says.

“Let’s stay here so they can see Guinevere,” he says, “it could help them make up their mind to show themselves.”

“That’s a good idea,” she says, “are you sure? I could stay and you—“

“No,” he says, immediately dismissing the idea of them separating. She’s revealed their connection with her hands, he’s not leaving her alone, “we’re staying together.”

She nods and watches as Guinevere makes her way through. She glances over at the two of them. Pym smiles and Lancelot thinks that’s probably not going to help sell what Guinevere is looking for. He doesn’t lift his hand but he turns it so she can see the stone. Her eyes narrow slightly before she taps the back of Arthur’s hand and he moves slightly closer.

“There’s never a dull moment with you, is there?” Pym asks.

Lancelot shakes his head.

“I did enjoy it,” he tells her quietly. She looks at him, “the market. It was enjoyable.”

“You’re not just saying that, are you?” She asks and he shouldn’t be surprised that she sees it’s not the full truth.

“It was enjoyable with you,” he corrects.

She blushes rather spectacularly, as she seems to do more frequently around him. Which he would think was strange except he’s noticed that he’s more prone to it around her. Perhaps they are not alright in some physical way or perhaps they are just being kinder and not accustom to it. But she steps slightly closer to him, regardless of how bright her face is.

“I’m glad,” she says, “I wanted to try, but I didn’t think it would be so fun. Or terrifying,” she adds, “I enjoyed going with you, so thank you for coming.”

He nods.

“Do you want me to hold the pebble so you don’t throw it first if there’s an attack?” She offers, not looking away from Guinevere.

He passes it to her and settles his hand on one of the blades instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Especially now that they're in a market and we're almost in the fluff carnival. Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter. Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. Onwards!


	89. Spark: Part 6

She doesn’t find him in the church like she half hopes, but rather on the docks.

He slips away after dinner and though she knows it’s silly, that he can take care of himself, she still can only make herself wait a little while before following him. He’s left a trail and either by accident or by choice, she knows that him being out here alone isn’t a good idea. Not if he’s being watched. She finds him sitting on the dock, one knee up and his forearm braced against it, the stone turning over between his fingers. His swords are next to him and she’s grateful he brought them.

“I didn’t think you should be out here alone,” she says, knowing it’s ridiculous to think she’s capable of sneaking up on him, “we don’t have to talk,” she adds when he looks at her. He raises an eyebrow and she knows not talking isn’t exactly her strongest suite, “we don’t!” She repeats, “we can talk later. If you want,” she adds quickly, sitting nearby but not quite next to him.

“Where’s Squirrel?” He asks.

“He went to bed,” she tells him. Concern flashes across his face, “he ate a lot of sweets.”

He nods and turns back to the water. He’s looking out at the horizon and she imagines he’s thinking of the island. She doubts he can smell it this far away, but she has no doubt he knows the general direction it’s in. She’s glad he doesn’t use Squirrel as an excuse to push aside his own feelings. It’s hard not to speak but she knew that he might not want to. Instead she watches her breath form on the air and tries to imagine how cold the water must be. If anything like the Hidden is listening, she hopes that Nimue isn’t cold. However strange she finds her situation in the winter, she’s sure that Nimue’s have put it to shame.

She looks over when she hears him move. Before she can get up, he sits down next to her and puts the blade besides him. Relief fills her, even though she refuses to open her mouth first. Maybe he just wants to sit next to her to keep her safe rather than not talking. She thinks of all the things he’s done to make her feel comfortable and tells herself that she can be silent in this case. There are things he’s not ready to talk about. She can respect that. Even if she’s the kind of person who has never found much use in silence. He looks at her and she pretends to focus on the water, but she feels his gaze and she has to fight not to look before finally giving up.

“Do you want to talk?”

“You’ve held back enough,” he says.

“I was trying to give you time!” She argues, though the faint smile on his lips makes it hard not to smile back. She doesn’t quite succeed, “I just think seeing them won’t be worse than seeing the rest of us,” she says, “and you got through that.”

“They don’t want to see me,” he says.

“To be fair, I don’t think any of us did either,” she points out gently. He looks at her sharply and she shrugs, “I’m glad Squirrel brought you back, I wasn’t in the moment.”

“You hid it so well,” he says mildly.

“I know, I know,” she says, “toying with her fingers, “to be fair, I did still help you.”

“You did,” he agrees, “I don’t think that will happen again.”

“Well it doesn’t need to,” she says. He looks confused, “you’re not alone like you were. You have people here who can help—“ he turns away and she feels her stomach drop, “it’s not the same thing.”

“That’s not true if they’ve been here the entire time.”

Pym knows it’s not that simple and at the same time it is. Which makes it almost dizzyingly complicated. If they’ve been here, hiding from him, then they know what he’s done. Everyone knows what he’s done. All the explanations in the world don’t bring back the dead or wash the blood from his hands. No more than they help Father Carden or his parents or any of the ones who made him what he is. She knows that knots can be undone, but she also knows that they leave marks. Especially if they are tied in delicate things. And there is nothing more delicate than life. Even if his is unusually hearty.

“If they’ve been here the entire time then they believe as we do. All Fey are brothers,” a humorless smile twists his lips, “what?” She asks, something cold settling in her.

“When I took Gawain, he called me Ash Man. He recognized my Marks,” he says, “he said they hadn’t been seen on this continent in a long time. But if an Ash Fey has been with them, even if it’s not him, they’ve been using my scent to evade us. They’ve known I was Fey.”

What he isn’t saying hangs heavy in the air. And all the pretty excuses in the world won’t make it go away. If all Fey are brothers, then why was this allowed to happen? Even if the Ash Folk being exiled is the reason, the horror stories she’s heard Gawain rail against, if there’s been another Ash Fey here then why was he left? He doesn’t say it, perhaps he cannot. He’s killed so many Fey, asking why no-one saved him sounds almost sacrilegious. Even just putting that much value on his own life is something she never expected from him. He looks guilty and surprised that the thought has even crossed his mind and she looks in disappointment as he turns his face away. Subtle enough that he must think she won’t see. But she does.

“You’re right,” she says, “someone should have come for you. Saved you, like you saved Squirrel,” she shakes her head, thinking of how many people could still be alive if they had put aside their pride and saved a boy, something that shouldn’t have been a question of politics like it was, “you were failed.”

She isn’t expecting him to look so frustrated.

“It changes nothing,” he says and there’s a finality to his tone that makes her wonder why it feels like the end of the topic, when she has far more to say about it.

  
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” she agrees, “but the people here care about you. Even back then, Squirrel cared about you. It’s not as simple as they should hate you,” she looks at his fingers, “if they didn’t think that way, why would they give you that?”

“Because I went to the island,” he says, looking down at his fingers, “I went in the Temple after breaking all our rules.”

She can hear the self loathing in his voice. She’s used to hearing it in people’s voices and feeling powerless. It’s a burden that people like him—people with the power of Gods—it’s something they have to carry. Her mother used to say it was the price they paid for their abilities. It wasn’t for people like them to know. The were simple folk. Her mother used to say a lot of foolish things like that.

“You broke their rules to save my life. And Squirrel’s life, Goliath’s life,” she says, “if they had such a problem with it, perhaps they shouldn’t have been hiding.”

“If I hadn’t been there—“

“We would have been dead,” she cuts in, “with or without you, the Paladins and the Trinity Guard keep hunting us. They would have found us eventually. You’re not the only Ash Folk they had.”

That at least stops the self loathing words. It’s true, Tristain would have found them. And if not her, then someone else. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe none of them would have found them and her life would continue as it had been laid out. The thought fills her with dread even though she knows that so many people would still be here if that was the case. What are her own desires compared to the lives of her village? Pym ignores the question and looks at him. He’s here, they aren’t in the village with her destined for an unpleasant life she doesn’t want and Squirrel learning to kill much younger than he has the luxury of doing now.

“If they have a problem with you using your gift to help your friends and family, then maybe they should stay hidden.”

He stares at her, truly shocked and Pym knows it’s not the nicest thing to say. But she’s long since given up in thinking that family is only defined by your blood. She thinks about the people like Guinevere and Nimue and Gawain who saw the problems with how things were done, with how their people treated others, and how they changed it. She knows things aren’t as simple as that. But she can’t just sit here and watch him torture himself. Not now that she knows him, not now that she’s seen him go through so much actual torture.

“They have every right to be afraid of me,” he says.

“Yes, but you can change their minds,” she says, “you’ve already stared or they wouldn’t have signaled you. Even the Temple accepted you,” he doesn’t respond at first, “you can make things better with them.”

“Why do you believe that?” He says and she knows it’s not a question but she answers anyway.

“You’ve been a good friend to me,” she says, “and I can’t imagine that it’s easy being a friend to someone you feel guilt over. But you didn’t let that stop you. Not with any of us, even though I think sometimes you wanted to,” she says, “if I can see that, then anyone can.”

“No,” he says.

“You’re just looking for reasons for them to hate you,” she says, “you should give them a chance if they show themselves and let them learn not to be afraid of you. You’re many things but you’re not a coward. You’re stronger than that,” he looks at her skeptically, “if they keep watching they’ll see that too.”

“If they were watching they almost saw me faint in a marketplace,” he says.

“And they saw you get back up to try again,” she shoots back, “why are you so set on them hating you? Why is it so hard to believe that they might learn not to?”

It’s a true question this time, even though she’s not sure there is an answer. She knows it’s not fair to them, they could very well hate him and continue to hate him. But if they are watching, they must see that there’s more to the story than just him being a monster or a coward. She shakes her head, wondering when this flipped for her. When defending him became so important. Even to himself. She can’t say he didn’t do the horrible things he’s done, but she can say those things aren’t the only thing he is.

“You are not like the others,” he says finally, “children knew I wouldn’t hurt them, Squirrel knew. Even before I saved his life,” he says, “you not killing me is—“ he hesitates, “it’s one of the most miraculous things I’ve seen.”

Her mouth goes dry at the admission. There are times when she thinks Lancelot isn’t aware of the things he says, of the effect that they have. Hearing him talk about her in terms she knows that he understands is dizzying. She’s not sure how to handle being called miraculous like that, not by someone who believes in his core in such things.

“I’ve never killed someone,” she starts.

“Everything you’ve done is miraculous,” he says.

Her face feels hot.

“You shouldn’t say that,” she says and wonders why her voice sounds faint, “I’m not—I’m just a—“ she fumbles for what to call herself without making it sound like she’s nearly as desperate for him to continue as she feels. Which she shouldn’t, “I’m just Pym,” she says finally. He ducks his head and she wonders if she’s just ruined something, something she doesn’t quite know how to name, “what?”

“Before I met you, only Squirrel knew my name,” he says, “I thought I forgot it some days,” she nods, “it wasn’t until you started calling me by it that I remembered who I was,” he explains, “in my own head.”

It’s a horrible thing to think that he had forgotten. Or maybe that he had never known. The idea that he learned to do it, that she had anything to do with helping even when she wasn’t trying, is just as dizzying as when he calls her a miracle. Maybe because it’s a term he would choose himself, not something he’s heard from another or something she’s said to him. Though she wishes she could blame the very physical reaction on something else.

“So I guess being just ourselves is miraculous, when you put it like that,” she says.

“You’re red again,” he says.

“Well no-one’s ever called me miraculous before!” She says, feeling her face get hotter in embarrassment, “and I thought we weren’t talking about that,” she argues, rubbing at her cheek though she imagines that will only make it worse. She drops her hand back into her lap, “I told you, before this I was just a girl from the village whose family had done something horrible. That’s not—“ she fumbles, not wanting to ruin the beautiful word, “that.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says and she can add another physical feeling when her stomach knots at he prospect of him not doing that again.

“I’m not upset,” she replies quickly, “I’m just—not used to it.”

He frowns as though that’s a difficult thing to believe. Though she doesn’t know how he can think that. She’s not exceptional like the people she’s surrounded by. It’s hard to believe there’s not some measure of pity in their interest in her. It’s not fair to those who believed in her and ultimately wound up somewhere else to feel hurt by that. But it’s hard when there’s Lancelot who seems endlessly pulled in other directions and fights his way back every time.

He makes her believe.

In herself, in the goodness of people—in him. She’s not sure she’ll ever have the kind of faith he does but she can understand it the more she spends time with him. She know she’s wanted to be around him, but the feeling of belonging isn’t something she’s accepted. Not truly. Not until now. Surrendering to it feels like inviting disaster but it’s not something she thinks she can fight anymore. And it feels as though she’s been fighting it for a long time.

He turns the pebble over in his hand a final time before holding it out to her.

“Could you—“

“Yes of course,” she says quickly, taking it from him. She doesn’t know why it feels like sparks when their fingers brush against each other, “I’ll keep it safe.”

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods and puts it into the pouch on her belt.

“Do you feel any better about it?” She asks tentatively. After a moment he shakes his head.

“But torturing myself over it isn’t going to help,” he says, “or expecting them to do it to me.”

She nods, even if she hopes one day his mind won’t immediately go to torture and punishment, recognizing that is what it does and that life doesn’t need to be lived in such a way is half the battle. It’s progress. She can’t explain it but it feels like they are on a horse who is beginning to pick up speed, though she cannot say where they are going. If it will be good or bad.

She can say she is glad that neither of them is alone for the journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. They really help motivate me and are so appreciated. This is getting exciting and I hope everyone’s ready! Onwards!


	90. Spark: Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read: There is a trigger warning in this chapter and the next few chapters for descriptions of an illness similar to hemorrhagic smallpox. I will have recaps of the important bits on my Tumblr if you don't want to read. You can find this recap [HERE](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/post/634881891748741120/firebird-recap-if-youve-chosen-to-do-this). I have this because it's a reality of the time and based on historical issues that I want to explore. I've kept the descriptions vague. But with the world being what it is, I completely understand not wanting to read this bit and want to respect that.

“Squirrel,” he touches the boy’s shoulder.

Squirrel makes a noise and tries to burrow deeper into the blankets. It’s odd for the boy. He is usually the first up and often pretends to sleep so he can either spy on them or out of some kindness. Lancelot knows he hasn’t done a particularly good job of hiding that he often leaves the room at night to be lost in his thoughts, though he’s lucky he hasn’t awoken them screaming with the nightmares. Him protesting is worrying, even if he ate too many sweets at the marketplace. He reaches for the corner of the blanket and pulls it back.

“Squirrel,” he repeats, putting a bit more force in his word, “how bad do you feel?”

“Bad,” comes the reply.

“I’ll get Pym,” he says.

“No!”

The protest makes him stop. Squirrel’s voice is reedy and thin but there’s a new force behind his words. Something is wrong. More wrong than he thought. He can hear there’s fear in the boy’s voice. Lancelot looks around the room for any sign of what is going on or why Squirrel’s afraid. He figured that him wedging himself into the farthest corner was to be close to the pot in case he was sick. When he thinks back on the night before, he realizes that he was already wrapped up in the blanket and shoved against the corner.

“Let me see you,” he says.

“You have to heal before you go near Pym,” Squirrel says and Lancelot nods before he remembers that Squirrel cannot see him, “do you swear?”

“Yes,” he says.

Lancelot knows the difficulty in breathing is from panic, but that doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

The whites of Squirrel’s eyes have turned red. Before he remembers the reasons not to, he presses the back of his hand to Squirrel’s forehead. The boy is already feverish but he may have been for days. His eyes did not look that way. Squirrel doesn’t pull the blanket down all the way but he works his hand free and Lancelot can see the black marks that dot his skin. Lancelot has seen the disease before. He’s healed from it before.

He hasn’t seen anyone survive it.

“Did you go to the market?” He asks Squirrel.

“I lied,” Squirrel admits, “I thought it would be better this morning but—“

“When did this appear?”

“This morning,” he says, pulling his arm back and shoving it under the blanket, “it’s pox.”

He nods, they both know what it is.

He thinks of Pym laying behind him. He always puts himself between the pair of them. She hasn’t touched Squirrel but he’s seen people be infected without touching others, just by getting close. When they burned villages with the disease, it was done by household not by person. Maybe there his something the Fey know that the Church does not. He can only hope, though the fear on Squirrel’s face makes him thing it is a long shot.

“Pym,” he says. There’s a muffled sound of protest that would make him panic if not for the knowledge that they were up late into the night talking, “Pym.”

“I’m awake,” she says, sitting upright. He turns and looks at her as she rubs the sleep from her eyes and pushes the hair that’s fallen out of her braid off her face. She turns to look at them and the soft expression drops from her face, “what is it?”

“I’m sick,” Squirrel says. Pym frowns and moves forward.

“Don’t come closer,” Lancelot says and she freezes, “he has pox.”

Recognition flares in her eyes and he watches her take a deep breath and move forward, throwing open the window. The cold air hits them immediately but Lancelot doesn’t dare make a fire until he’s healed. There’s panic on Pym’s face but not in the devastating way that he sees on the man-bloods that he’s seen before. She looks at him and reaches under the cot, shoving a pail towards him. In it he sees there’s soil. He was prepared to go out the window but this is more practical and he presses his hand to it. It takes very little for the Fire to start, showing that if he has been infected it hasn’t gotten bad. He hopes that means Squirrel has a less deadly version, but the color of his eyes doesn’t make him feel better.

“You need to go,” he says to Pym.

“I might be infected,” she says. Horror floods her face, “the market—“

“I didn’t go,” Squirrel peeps out, “I thought I just ate something bad, I didn’t want you to worry.”

Pym turns her head away like hearing the boy is painful and it is. The risk that she might be infected is great but the hope that she isn’t is one he refuses to let go of. They haven’t touched recently and this is a recent thing. Squirrel is alive and in the thick of it. Now that he has the rash it can spread but there’s a chance that he hasn’t spread it to anyone yet.

“You need to go and tell Guinevere,” she says.

“Wait here,” he tells her, “both of you keep your faces to the wall,” he moves out and locates a nearby room that is empty. He comes back and tries the door, only to find it locked, “Pym.”

“Go tell Guinevere,” she orders him again.

“Pym.”

“I said go tell her,” Pym repeats, sounding closer to the door, “I’m staying here with Squirrel.”

Anger and worry surge through him. Is she near Squirrel? Has she already been infected if she wasn’t before? He can heal, they cannot. Why is she putting herself at risk in this way. His hand twists the knob on the door again, trying to open it. He can think of a dozen ways to force it, but if he’s too late and she’s already infected they will condemn so many more to a terrible fate.

“Open the door.”

“Go tell Guinevere,” she says.

“Pym!”

“Don’t open the door!” She replies, her voice sharper than he’s heard it, “go tell Guinevere. She needs to know and she can’t be risked.”  
  
“Are you with him?” He demands.

“That doesn’t matter!” She shoots back, “and it shouldn’t affect you opening the door. I told you not to, stop wasting time.”

He presses his forehead to the wood of the door. Saving her life isn’t a waste of time. He refuses to think about the implication of leaving Squirrel alone. He has no intention of doing that, just going to get Guinevere and returning. He can help him until he recovers. No-one else needs to be sick with this. He refuses to think past that with Squirrel. He will recover. He pushes away from the door and goes to find Guinevere. When she sees him, she is immediately on her feet.

“I’ve healed,” he says, “Squirrel wasn’t at the market yesterday. He’s got pox,” he says, “his eyes have turned,” he adds, “he and Pym have locked themselves in the room.”

Instead of anger, he watches seriousness fall over Guinevere’s face. All the wars in the world are sometimes preferable to a sickness like this. There’s no physical strength or wits that will save someone from their own body.

“We need to send riders to start checking and seeing if anyone else is showing symptoms,” Guinevere says immediately. She looks at him, “get Bors. I need to know where he’s been.”

Lancelot finds Bors easily. He’s not sleeping. He’s curled up in another corner and arms locked around his knees. Sometimes he’s taken to sleeping in their room but he realizes that hasn’t been true. He’s thought nothing of it. How long has Squirrel been feeling ill? Bors looks up at him when he comes in and he doesn’t burst into tears. He does jump up though, his doll clutched to his chest. 

“How long?”

“He said he felt feverish two days ago,” Bors says, “he said he was feeling sick last night and I wanted to tell you but—“

“Why didn’t you tell Gawain or Kaze?”

“I couldn’t find them either!” He says, “Squirrel said to wait here and we’d talk in the morning if he wasn’t feeling better. We haven’t left in days.”

“Have you felt sick?” Lancelot asks quickly. Bors shakes his head, “did either of you come into any contact with man bloods?” Bors looks down. Lancelot crouches so they are at the same level, “I need you to tell me.”

“Just me,” Bors mumbles. Lancelot looks at him curiously and Bors takes a deep breath, “I’m half man blood—half human,” he says, “it’s why I’m not as strong as everyone else.”

Lancelot is surprised by the revelation. Bors is not the first half blooded child he’s encountered. But he’s surprised he hasn’t heard it before. The fear and guilt on Bors’ face is eerily familiar, even if he never had the luxury of a mirror to see it on his own. Unlike the other times he’s seen him afraid, no tears form in Bors’ eyes. But the weight of this is undeniable. Lancelot wonders if he’s told anyone else, though the look on his face says that he hasn’t.

“Come with me,” he says, “we need to tell this to Guinevere,” Bors nods and gets up, “whoever told you that you’re not as strong as anyone else is the kind I would take,” he tells him.

Bors looks surprised and then nods, looking down to hide a smile. Lancelot steers the boy into the room. Immediately everyone turns to face him. He shakes his head to let them know that he hasn’t been infected, though it’s clear from the way he looks.

“He hasn’t been near Squirrel since the symptoms started,” he says.

“Squirrel told me to hide,” Bors supplies.

“Why didn’t either of you say something?” Guinevere asks.

“We thought that the market was more important,” Bors admits.

Guinevere sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, but none of the usual anger comes out. Bors tightens his grip on his doll as she comes forward and Lancelot lays a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. Guinevere lowers herself to his level.

“Next time you tell us.”

Bors nods.

“Is Squirrel going to be okay?”

“Yes,” Lancelot says, not leaving room for any other option.

Guinevere straightens up and gives him a look that he would ask about if he wasn’t so intent on getting back to the sick room. He knows Bors is alright now but he knows that is not necessarily the case. The rustle of Gawain appearing is a welcomed sound, even if Lancelot wants to ask questions about where he’s been. Lancelot knows he’s too guilty of sneaking off to ask anyone why they do it.

“Can you watch the Bors?” He says.   
  
“Of course,” Gawain replies, “come with me.”

He doesn’t think to explain anything, leaving that to the others. He just departs, heading back to the room. If Pym still has the door locked, he thinks he’ll burn it down or come in through the window. But he hopes that he can just tell her he did what was needed so she’ll unlock it. Perhaps she’s been smart enough to stay back. The hope almost makes the dread worse as he arrives at the door and knocks on it.

“Guinevere’s been informed,” he says. There’s no response, “can you unlock the door?”

“You shouldn’t come in here,” Pym says.

“I can heal,” he replies.

There’s a sound of frustration.

“Is anyone around you?” She asks.

“No,” he replies.

He hears her move forward and the door unlocks.

He truly does forget to breathe this time.

There’s blood on her. He sees it even as she steps aside and motions him in. Of course she’s given no thought to her own safety and put Squirrel first. He’s been moved from the corner to the cot. He seems to be sleeping fitfully. His lips are red and it’s not hard to see where the blood came from. If it’s just on her skin, there could be a chance—but as she wipes her hands carelessly he knows that there won’t be such luck. If Squirrel is already coughing blood, then there’s little hope this will be the kind of infection that passes easily.

“He started coughing,” she says, “I couldn’t just sit there—“ she reaches up and he snatches her wrist before she can spread the blood. She looks surprised at the contact and then sees her fingers, “oh,” she says, seemingly unsure of what she’s done.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to pull her close before she can truly panic, if that is what she’s about to do. It may be the wrong thing. But she collapses into him all the same, gripping his shirt even with the blood on her fingers. Her forehead presses to his chest and he feels her shiver, remembering for the first time that he opened the window. Instead of doing the logical thing and closing it, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. It only makes her lean more heavily against him.

He feels the wetness against his chest but it’s not blood. He knows the smell of both of their blood. He realizes that she’s crying. Whether she’s afraid for herself or for Squirrel or for them both, he cannot say. He doesn’t remember the last time he wept. The emotion of knowing it’s a matter of time before they are both gone makes him feel more sick than emotional. Or perhaps it’s his mind working desperately to shut this away.

“You’ve seen this before.”

“Once,” she says, her voice choked.

“Was there treatment?”

“I don’t remember,” she says, shaking her head, “it was a long time ago,” she shakes her head, her forehead moving against his chest, “I did what the book said but—“ she trails off.

“What?”

“It didn’t say how to cure it,” she says.

His heart sinks in disappointment as the anger towards the Fey crests. Would his mother have known a way? Would the High Summoner? Is there some way to save them and they just don’t know? It’s hard not to be angry. Or maybe it’s just easier to push the anger aside with Pym in his arms. It always has been. Squirrel starts to stir and he guides her over to the table and seats her down before turning to the boy. His eyes are just as horrible when he opens them.

“Did you tell everyone?”

“Yes,” he says. Squirrel blinks up at him and nods, “rest,” he says.

“Did you have a good time at the market?”

He touches the boy’s forehead again and the heat there is terrifying. Squirrel frowns at the touch and Lancelot looks for the cloth nearby, wringing it out and laying it over his forehead.

“Yes,” he says, “try to rest.”

Squirrel nods and closes his eyes. Lancelot wipes his hands and looks at the book, looking at Pym for permission to touch the precious object.

“May I look?”

She nods, not seeming to care about sharing the secrets in it. Or perhaps there are just no secrets between them. He looks at the book for anything that she may have missed. But it’s just more remedies, things that make people comfortable. Over and over. They are to be taken to the temple and made comfortable. As he turns the pages, he sees the temple repeated over and over again. It means nothing now.

What good does a place like that do when it’s been desecrated?

The connection has to be the Hidden.

“The book keeps talking about the Hidden,” he says, “did you try to summon them?”

“It didn’t work,” she says, “I can’t do it alone. It doesn’t work alone,” she looks at the bucket, “the book says the temple,” she looks at him, “is there a temple?” She asks hesitantly

“Not as you remember,” he says.

She lets out a hollow laugh.

“I wasn’t allowed in there,” she admits, “not often. So I wouldn’t be sure about that,” she says.

He nods, prepared to try and guide her to try and speak to them before it gets worse, but he can see the tears have started again. She’s in no state to summon them yet. Squirrel’s breathing sounds steadier but he knows that the fever is making him bleed inside. That soon Pym will start to do the same.

Instead of trying to drag her to the bucket, he pulls her up and against him, letting her fall against his chest and begin to weep once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Also please feel free to message me on Tumblr if you have any questions etc. Thank you to everyone who commented/messaged/kudosed, I so appreciate it. And a special thank you to those who let me get feedback on proceeding with this part with the illness. See you in the next chapter!


	91. Spark: Part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for descriptions of an illness, though it's vague. I have the recap from the last chapter [HERE](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/post/634881891748741120/firebird-recap-if-youve-chosen-to-do-this) and will put up a recap if you don't want to read about the illness.

It’s not a bad way to die.

Pym reasons as she sits by Squirrel’s bedside, seeing the future laid out in from to her. It’s not. Letting him die alone is something she couldn’t live with—something she thought had happened when the Paladins came. She can help, she can make sure that if it’s his time he doesn’t do it afraid. Though it can’t be his time, he’s in Merlin’s vision. If it’s her fate to die of this so that Squirrel can live. That’s a trade she’s willing to make.

“You should heal,” she says to Lancelot.

He doesn’t respond, though she hears him move. He’s gotten quieter, like he’s slipping back into his old self. She’s fine with dying for Squirrel, but she is sorry that it may mean Lancelot is without them. She knows that Arthur, Guinevere, Kaze, Lancelot—everyone will help. He won’t be truly alone. But she knows that they are most comfortable around each other. She would apologize but Squirrel is half asleep and she cannot bear the thought of him blaming himself for any of this.

“You should go speak to Guinevere,” she adds, turning to face him, “if you can’t be sickened, you could help.”

“I’m not leaving,” he says simply.

She wants to argue the point but the look on his face makes her stop. It’s Squirrel, she can’t blame him for not wanting to leave and pushing him to go seems cruel. From the few things they’ve gotten out of him and the things Bors has said, it’s not been long. Though she knows the blood in his eyes is the thing that starts the true clock. It will be a few days and he will either survive or not. It’s such a cruel thing to think about, she refuses to entertain the thought of him taking a last breath. Even though she knows that it is something she needs to reconcile. She can help make it easier if that is what is going to happen. That matters more than her own sorrow. She picks up the book again to look for anything that could help, but she knows there’s nothing new.

“We should try the Hidden,” Lancelot says.

“The Hidden aren’t going to help,” she says, “they were able to let us do something but this is something else.”

Lancelot looks away and she knows he wants answers. She doesn’t blame him. But making Squirrel uncomfortable or wet just to try something when he’s so fragile is—it’s not something she can bare. It’s better that he has what comfort he can, especially now while he’s still aware of everything. It’s not the answer that Lancelot wants to hear, but it’s the answer that she has. She doesn’t want to argue with him, she’s not sure she has it in her while Squirrel is here fighting for his life.

“You don’t know that,” he says.

She shakes her head. Lancelot has always had more faith. She is going to take so much, she cannot take that as well. He crouches in front of her and she looks away quickly. She refuses to give into crying again and she’s not sure she can stand watching him beg. Not him. Not after everything. She needs them to be on the same page about this, she needs just that and maybe things will be alright. She can’t say how she knows the Hidden aren’t going to help them like this, but she does.

“Not now,” she says.

“Pym,“ there’s frustration in his voice.

“Please, can’t we just—“ she looks at Squirrel whose supposed to have a long, exciting life. She could kill Merlin for this if he dies, “I don’t want him to be in more pain.”

Squirrel being strong enough to withstand things is what has lead them to this point. He is strong. If anyone can fight this off it is him. But he’s a boy. He shouldn’t have to be strong. Not like this. Everything that’s happened in the past few days is important, she’s not saying it isn’t. But it shouldn’t have gotten them to this place. It’s hard not to blame herself for this. If she hadn’t been so intent on her own desires, could she have seen what was going on and helped him sooner? Lancelot’s hand appears in front of her.

“Just try,” Lancelot says and she knows she should argue but she doesn’t have it in her.

She nods and takes his hand, following him over to the clean bucket of water. He holds his hand above it and she watches the green flame start, twisting down to the water. She puts her own fingertips in it and prays that she’s wrong. That maybe the Hidden will continue to show them favor and tell her of some remedy. Something that she’s supposed to do. But when she sees the golden flickers in the water, there’s nothing else that shows up. No humming, no voices, no answers. She thinks she would rip her hands free if not for Lancelot holding her steadily. As it is the lights waver and then they vanish.

“They vanished,” she says, “I didn’t hear anything, I saw them and they vanished,” she takes a trembling breath, “they can’t fix this. Nimue could heal with them but—she’s not here.”

She thinks about Dof and Gawain and those that Nimue couldn’t heal. Even if they could somehow get to Avalon, there’s no guarantee that they would do it in time for her to help. Or that she would be able to. Her idea of helping could be Squirrel going to Avalon and that, right now, seems like another kind of death. She pulls her hand out of the water and wipes it on her dress, looking back at Squirrel until Lancelot settles his hands on her shoulders.

“You’re fighting it,” he says, “don’t be afraid.“  
  
“How can I not be scared?” She demands, “what good are they going to do right now when,“ she drops her voice, “when Squirrel’s already like that?” He says nothing, “I’m sorry, they aren’t going to help.”

“It’s our only chance right now.”

“What if they punish us for trying?” She questions, “we have a way to make him comfortable—“

“No.”

She looks up at him and he’s very serious. It’s that look he gives when he says something he’s used to being followed. It’s tempered, he doesn’t have to fight to recognize her and who he’s speaking to. But the voice makes her cringe all the same. She knows it’s the fear that’s driving her, but given what the Hidden have done it’s a fear that’s warranted. How can she risk the chance of him being comfortable with the hope that he might recover? She seems to anger the Hidden with her presence alone. How can she risk that for Squirrel dying in pain?

“It’s too much of a risk,” she says, stepping back, “they aren’t going to help like this. They—“ she stops herself.

“What?” Lancelot prods.

“They wanted you,” Pym says, “it’s the only thing that makes sense for why they helped.”

Lancelot looks at her quietly.

“Was it them or you?” He asks.

Pym doesn’t know how he can ask that. She wanted him back, of course. But the Hidden have been interested in him from the start. Everything he’s described about hearing the whispers speaks of them intently wanting him. Knowing what she does about his abilities, she can see their reasoning. Her abilities with the Hidden seem tied to Nimue, but she doesn’t think it’s nearly as simple as her wanting something and Nimue agreeing. If it was, Squirrel would be healed with barely a thought.

“Both,” she says, “but if I want Squirrel healed and they don’t—“ she looks over at Squirrel, “it could make things worse. The Hidden don’t always make it better.”

She doesn’t know how to frame it so he understands that her fears about the Hidden aren’t without merit. They are fickle and sometimes terrifying. They do nothing that doesn’t benefit what they want and, when it comes down to it, they want to survive. Nimue may have helped them gain more power or see the use in helping in another way, but with Lancelot and Arthur she knows damn well that they are crucial to the Hidden surviving Uther, the Church and the Ice King.

“We should ask Squirrel,” he says, moving past her.

“No,” she steps in front of him, “he’s a boy. Right now he needs to sleep. He’s taken on too much with this as it is.”

Under any other circumstances the decision would be with his parents, but he has none. Pym knows that they are the closest thing the other has to family right now, but she desperately wishes that Squirrel’s parents were here. This decision feels too heavy for anyone to make. She knows it can’t be on Squirrel. He’s a boy. But it feels wrong for it to be on them. At being denied demanding answers from him, Lancelot turns and walks to the other side of the room. He’s good at being eerily still but she knows that it’s after he’s exercised the energy out of him. She almost wants to send him to run but she knows that it’s not a suggestion he’ll entertain.

She feels so lost.

Squirrel is a boy and he’s one of the last tangible connections she has to Nimue. But more than that he’s her friend. They understand each other with everything that they’ve gone through in a way that she doesn’t think anyone else can. He’s survived so much, the prospect of this seems wrong. She looks over at Lancelot and watches him brace his hands against the window. Any other time he would pray, she thinks. But he doesn’t do that. She thought their enemy would be something they could fight, not something like this.

“We can try again,” she says finally.

He’s back at her side in an instant, so fast it’s almost comical. But it’s not. Nothing will be. They kneel and he summons the Fire and she puts her hand into the water, taking a deep breath. She tries to steady herself, to focus on something other than her fear. Summoners don’t beg. They aren’t desperate or afraid, they are respectful. The Hidden don’t respect fear. She opens her eyes and looks down at the water, fighting the disappointment at the glow but no humming. Nothing to actually give an answer.

“How do I save him?” She tries.

Nothing happens. The wind picks up and she feels her skin pebble in the cold. But any hope she has that it’s the Hidden is dashed when the breeze dies down. She sighs and shakes her head, looking up at Lancelot.

“They’re here but they aren’t speaking,” she says.

“We can try again.”

She gives a tight smile, knowing that he wants to believe it. But she knows in her gut they aren’t going to give the answers that he wants. She stands up, wiping the water on her dress and giving his hand a quick squeeze before returning to Squirrel. He stirs as she sits next to him and she smiles as he opens his horrible eyes to look at her.

“Can we go?” He asks.

“Go where?” She says.

“Home,” he says, “I want to go home.”

Her stomach twists but she ignores the urge to be sick and smiles at him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He’s rolled with all the change like a well oiled wheel. It’s her whose been crying for home, not him. It never even really crossed her mind that he’d be desperate to go back there.

“You and Nimue always wanted to run away,” she says, “now you want to go back.”

He nods, not responding to her gentle teasing. Squirrel hates being sick more than anyone she knows, but he also fears it. They all do. How could they not? Even boys see what happens to those who are sick. Though now they don’t even have the kindness of that.

“I want to go home,” he repeats, “I can see it when I close my eyes.”

She refuses to entertain this is a new symptom and somehow trying to speak to the Hidden has made it worse. Instead she nods like he’s speaking sense and wrings out a new cloth to put on his forehead.

“Close your eyes,” she says, “and think of home. Like Lancelot taught you.”

Squirrel wavers for a moment and then nods, closing his eyes. She waits until his breathing is steady to turn around to try and stifle the sounds that want to escape her. But before she can cover her mouth, Lancelot is there. He guides her hands to a different bucket to wash them and she shakes her head at his caring.

“I don’t think that matters now,” she admits.

He looks up at her and she tries to smile reassuringly back at him. He looks like he does when they speak about the Ash Folk or the Paladins, when there’s nothing to do and no enemies to fight. He cannot fight this and she cannot imagine how difficult that must be. Especially for someone like him. Somehow all three of them are helpless in this situation and she cannot think of anything worse.

“You should go check to see how the riders are getting on. If anyone else has been infected,” she suggests. He opens his mouth, “there might be something we can do to make it easier on them,” he hesitates, “I know you don’t want to, but it’s good that you do. Maybe someone here has a solution. There’s other Fey.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” he says.

“I know and I don’t want you to go, but you need to. Just for a little bit. We’ll be fine until you get back.”

He hesitates another moment and then nods, not liking the idea but either deciding that she has a point or that right now might not be the time to argue. He heals himself quickly with the pail of dirt by the door and she thinks it might take a moment longer than it did, or she might be imagining things. He gives her one last look and then slips out of the room.

Pym ignores the book and the water and turns back to Squirrel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. They so help with my motivation to not feel like I'm screaming into the void and keep me focused on this story/updates. I would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter and I will see you in the next one!


	92. Spark: Part 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No descriptions of the illness itself here but discussions of it so just to be safe I want to let you know. I will have the summary up shortly on my Tumblr for this and the last chapter.

“Lancelot!”

He slows down slightly for a Bedivere to come up to him. He would be surprised to see him dressed for riding but he knows that he shouldn’t be. He feels ill over what is happening in the room but he knows the people he rides with. They would all risk themselves for others. They all have, many times. If Guinevere is just sending them out without any thought, they could lose everyone.

“How are they?” He asks.

“Alive,” Lancelot says. He looks Bedivere up and down, “who else has gone out?”

“Tristain, Kaze, Gawain and I,” he says, “people who are less likely to be hurt by it.” He looks at him sharply, “Tristain can heal, I don’t think this effects Gawain,” he says, “Kaze and I have already had it.”

“What?”

Bedivere seems surprised and Lancelot doesn’t like the sympathy on his face. He tries to remember if he heard about the pox or Bedivere being sick, but he doesn’t think it ever occurred to him to ask. By then Bedivere had taken his Vows and was off fighting in the Holy Land where Lancelot was not permitted to go. Not being born of sin as he was. The stories of the pox are far reaching but he knows the Church says it was a punishment for sin. For dealing with the heretics in the land and giving them coin in return for their goods. The suffering would cleanse the sinners, it was God’s choice to do it with sickness instead of flames. But the flames would come and they would be cleansed all the same.

He thinks of Squirrel laying there.

How did he ever think this was what God intended?

“Lancelot,” Bedivere says his name and settles his hand on his shoulder. Lancelot stiffens at the contact but doesn’t shrug it off. Bedivere steers him to a chair, “we haven’t found anyone showing symptoms. Squirrel saved so many by hiding.”

“He’s bleeding inside,” Lancelot says.

“I’m sorry,” Bedivere replies.

“Where’s Kaze?” He asks. If she survived, maybe there is something there.

“Stay here, I’ll go get her,” Bedivere says.

Lancelot doesn’t understand how he can be expected to be still. To stay anywhere. He wants to run until he cannot breathe, until he can trade his life for the boy fighting for his. He wants to trade his life for both of theirs but he knows Pym will kill him herself for thinking such a thing. He feels guilty enough for it as well. But he wishes desperately for them both to survive. He looks up as Kaze returns with Bedivere. The closed off look on her face tells him what he doesn’t want to hear even before her mouth opens.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Was there anything—“

“No,” she says, “the Paladins brought it. It crippled us,” she continues, “we couldn’t fight it and them.”

He wonders if there will ever be a day when the atrocities of this don’t come back. He was afraid of the hellfire that waited for him upon death, now he thinks that death isn’t a requirement for it. Not if Squirrel and Pym are going to pay the price for what he’s done. He would take the actual hellfire over this. As long as it only came for him. But that is not how things work and he knows better.

“I’m sorry there isn’t something more,” she says. He nods wordlessly, “come with us to speak to Guinevere,” she says.

He thinks to protest but he nods and follows, remembering Pym’s words. He knows it’s a dangerous path to tread, to think about why following her requests feels like a kindness towards someone whose about to pass. She hasn’t shown the symptoms, she might survive. They both might survive. But the idea of her eyes turning like Squirrel’s have threatens to make him feel sick. This time they make it to where Guinevere is waiting and he sees Merlin has joined them.

“Was this in your vision?” He questions him.

Merlin looks up at him with nothing but pity on his face and Lancelot is glad his blades aren’t around his hips. It’s hard enough to control the Fire and that feels less natural than the sword. It doesn’t stop him from moving past everyone towards Merlin.

“I would have said something if it was.”

“You didn’t tell us about the vision before,” Lancelot retorts.

“It wasn’t for you to know,” Merlin says.

“Lancelot—Lancelot!” Arthur is in front of him suddenly, one hand on his shoulder.

Lancelot knows he should be thankful for his presence and the distraction, but the only thought he has is that it will feel good to hurt Merlin. Much better than it felt to burn Abbott Wicklow. This will feel good in a way that he cannot hurt the other people who are dead. Merlin deserves it. He looks almost hopeful and then disappointed when Arthur intervenes.

“I know you’re scared but this isn’t the way.”

Arthur’s words turn over in his head. Is he scared? He’s angry. He’s worried. He’s all the things he felt when the Paladins caught Squirrel and he spit in Father’s face, but with so much less certainty. He knew who he had to fight, it was a question of if he was brave enough to do it. There is no enemy here that he can fight or sacrifice himself for. A few short months ago he would have welcomed death. Felt he deserved it. Even now this has shifted and though he would willingly trade his life for theirs, he would rather they all survived. He looks over Arthur’s shoulder at Merlin but Arthur moves his head so only his face fills it.

“Lancelot,” he repeats his name, his tone changing and Lancelot remembers it from his panic at remembering. When Arthur and Gawain kept him grounded until he could come back to himself. Arthur nods and he mimics the gesture, “good,” Arthur says, lowering his hand.

He doesn’t step too far away though and Lancelot is glad for that. Not attacking Merlin feels very much like a choice at this point and he’s not certain if it’s the right one. What can the druid offer? What can any of these magical forces that have so betrayed the Fey offer? He knows he needs to put the thoughts aside, the sooner they deal with everyone else the sooner they can focus on Pym and Squirrel. And no matter how satisfying the thought of killing Merlin is, the thought of not being there for Squirrel and Pym isn’t one he’s willing to risk. Not for anything.

“How do we help those who are sick?” Arthur asks.

“We didn’t find anyone,” Kaze says, “it may not have spread far.”

“Thank the Gods for that.,” Guinevere says.

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, “Merlin you must have seen this before?”

“Yes,” he says, “I don’t know the cure.”

“Surely your magic—“

“I cannot help you that way,” Merlin says, something dark and angry crossing his face, making him look far more like the druid of legend.

“What way can you help then?” Arthur asks, frustration creeping into his voice.

“You need the Hidden,” Merlin says.

“We tried that,” Lancelot says, “Pym says they didn’t speak.”

“Have they ever spoken to her?” Merlin asks and the idea of killing him becomes far more palatable, “the Hidden aren’t here. They aren’t in the cities of Man Bloods,” he looks at him, “if you’re going to ask them for this kind of help you need to go where they’re stronger. You need to go to the Sky People’s Village.”

Lancelot looks at him in disbelief.

“That place is no more,” he says.

“You think one turn with the Paladins is enough to banish the Hidden from their sacred place?” Merlin asks with a cynical chuckle, “there’s a reason that temple was built in stone.”

It’s a preposterous idea. By the time they get there, Squirrel could be dead. But even as he tells himself that he thinks of the boy’s voice, the plea to go home. Had the Hidden whispered to him or was it the ramblings of a fevered child? Does he even have the strength to make the journey? The last question Lancelot can dismiss without a second thought. If Squirrel is not strong enough to do it, then no-one is. And if he is not, he knows the boy would rather go trying than laying in a cot somewhere. He knows it and still he finds himself looking over at Gawain.

“Don’t let him hear you talking of this,” he says, “he’d be on his horse already.”

“Is there a way to make him more comfortable?” Lancelot asks.

“There are things that would help,” Gawain says, “Pym and I can come up with something to help him not bleed more.”

“When we get there, what do we do?” Lancelot asks, looking at Merlin.

“They will guide you,” Gawain says, “or they will guide her.”

The notion that Pym might not accompany them on this journey is laughable. But Lancelot simply nods. He’s not sure anything will be laughable again for a long time. He looks over at Guinevere but she’s already speaking to two of the Raiders and looks up at him.

“Are you taking the second horse or Old Boy?”

“The former,” he says.

She nods and the two Raiders head off.

“Can you speak to Pym?” He says to Gawain, “get started preparing Squirrel?”

“Of course,” Gawain says.

Lancelot looks over and locates Bedivere. When their eyes lock, the priest nods and gets up, coming over to him. Lancelot walks out of the room and Bedivere follows into one of the smaller chapels. He doesn’t know fully why he sends Gawain ahead or pulls Bedivere into a chapel, not until he’s done both of these things. Bedivere seems to know already, he locks the door and looks at him.

“I haven’t prayed since the island,” Lancelot says. Bedivere nods, “I don’t want to.”

“How can I help you?” Bedivere asks.

Lancelot hesitates for a moment but he pushes himself onwards. This isn’t about him. But the deeds that he has done are heavy on him. Is there enough of this sacred place to do anything? Is Merlin right or is this just a kindness for a dying boy? Are either of them things that he has any say in? Lancelot doesn’t know, but he knows that they are about to return to a place that he hoped they never would. Whatever kindness the Hidden have shown him, that might change if he returns to a place he tried to kill them in.

He cannot pretend the thought of killing Squirrel didn’t cross his mind, though that was after he met him. If he had died he wouldn’t be the first child who met such a fate in the chaos of a cleansing.

It’s a place where he would have killed Pym without a second thought.

“I need to confess,” Lancelot says.

Bedivere doesn’t argue or remind him he’s incapable of prayer. He just nods and moves over to the pew, sitting there and motioning Lancelot to sit next to him. Lancelot lowers himself onto the pew next to him and lowers his head as Bedivere prays and blesses him. The absence of feeling after the moment before he was captured, when he’s sure he felt something, feels almost cruel. But perhaps that is his penance.

“I took lives,” Lancelot says, “I burned homes. I hunted stragglers down. I took a child as bait and I killed those who tried to save him,” he continues, “I tracked Nimue with the intention of killing her,” he lowers his head, “I helped desecrate a sacred place to the Sky Folk.”

“What drove you to these actions?”

“I did them in the name of God,” Lancelot says, “and on the orders of His Holiness.”

“Do you regret them, even if the men who drove you to do them do not?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know your actions were wrong?”

Lancelot looks down at his hands.

“Some part of me knew they were wrong then,” he admits, “but that part was silent.”

Bedivere is quiet for a moment as the admission hangs heavy in the air. Lancelot knows Pym and Gawain were right, some part of him could distinguish what he was doing was wrong. But that part was twisted and broken. It wasn’t as strong as it should have been, but not as weak as may have excused something. He’s never given confession without receiving lashes for it. He doesn’t know how Bedivere sees penance. Especially now that he cannot pray.

“On your journey, recite His Word,” he says. Lancelot opens his mouth, “I’m not saying it will be an easy thing for you, but try. You’ve done evil in His Name, perhaps it is time to try doing some good in it instead.”

Lancelot closes his mouth and doesn’t protest again. Bedivere bows his head to pray and Lancelot doesn’t try to mimic the gesture. He looks at the cross instead.

“Is he going to take them as punishment?” He says.

“It isn’t for us to know His plan,” Bedivere says, “but if he takes them, it would be because He needs them,” he looks at him, “not to punish you.”

Lancelot wishes that it was easier to believe but he nods anyway. Bedivere gives a tight smile and Lancelot imagines there is no-one else here who understands better.

“Will you pray for them?” He asks quietly.

“I will pray for all of you,” Bedivere says.

“Thank you, my friend,” Lancelot tells him, grasping his shoulder and getting to his feet.

Bedivere seems too shocked by the sentiment to reply and Lancelot doesn’t mind. If this works, there will be time to speak on it when he returns. If it doesn’t, he’s unsure what he’ll do. But returning isn’t high on his list. Right now he doesn’t want to think about it. The sooner they are on the road, the closer they are to getting where they need to be.

Either they all return or Squirrel will get to die at home.

He refuses to entertain any other option. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Thank you to everyone who left kudos, comments, Tumblr messages. They are appreciated more than you will ever know. Onwards to the next chapter!


	93. Spark: Part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illness description warning. I swear I will have the recaps up shortly I just got excited writing the chapter.

“What?” Pym stares at Gawain, “you can’t be serious.”

“It’s your best chance,” Gawain says, “I feel the same.”

Pym has to fight the urge to say she doesn’t care how he feels. Or Merlin. Or anyone. None of them have the right to make this decision for Squirrel. Riding for the ruins of their village on the slim chance that there might be more power there to help them is insanity. And Squirrel—he’s in enough pain as it is. How on earth can anyone think to subject him to traveling. On horseback none the less. The idea is preposterous and she cannot believe that these men have come up with it. Squirrel is a boy and he’s in pain.

“He may not survive the journey,” she says.

“He will,” Gawain says, “and if you leave now you will get there before you succumb to this.”

She looks away sharply, wishing quite badly that Lancelot was here. How on earth can she tell someone who has died that she doesn’t want to think about her own impending death? She doesn’t regret her actions but she cannot pretend she isn’t afraid, no matter how much she wishes that she was braver. Like the Knights who have to be reminded they have people to come home to or they will sacrifice themselves without a second thought. She wonders if they are afraid when they do it, but immediately ignores the question. Of course they aren’t.

“That doesn’t matter,” she says.

“It does,” Gawain tells her, “we need to create something to help keep him steady.”

“But—“

“I know you’re afraid,” Gawain says, “but we both know the Hidden are stronger there. It’s why we had our homes near them.”

Pym feels her face get hot. She is afraid, but how can she not be? With everything that is happening, anyone who loves Squirrel and isn’t afraid is out of their minds. But she knows that the fear for Squirrel goes hand in hand with her fear of the Hidden’s silence. What if she puts him through this entire journey and they say nothing? She knows she won’t live long after that, but it’s a hard thing to think about Squirrel dying in pain because of her failure. At the very least she can do something though that isn’t dependent on whether or not the Hidden have decided to forgive.

“Wait,” she says quickly when Gawain moves towards Squirrel, “I can make something so he’s not in pain.”

Gawain nods and she quickly mixes the things she needs to together. She does her best to ignore Gawain’s gaze on her, even though her fingers know what to do. When she glances over at him, a smile comes across his face. She doesn’t know how anything can summon such a smile at this time, but she feels her face get hot all the same.

“Why are you smiling like that at me?” She asks.

“It’s a marvel watching you work,” Gawain sighs, “you should have learned this long ago.”

She looks back at the blue liquid and tells herself not to remind him that it wasn’t an option. Not after the healer abandoned everyone without a word or a warning. No-one ever would have trusted anyone from her family to not do the same. Not that she would blame them. They both know that. It’s not something she wants to waste what little time she has reminiscing about. Instead she takes the liquid and divides it. She knows she’ll have to make more to get them there but this is a good start. She goes over to Squirrel, gently waking him.

“Drink this,” she says.

“What is is?” He asks.

“It’s going to help you not be in pain,” she says, “we’re going home.”

“We are?” He seems confused and when she touches the back of her hand to his forehead, she’s surprised at how hot his skin is. She refuses to let her worry show on her face. Instead she nods, “okay.”

Squirrel let’s her help him drink the liquid and she watches the pain slide from his face. It’s terrible that she’s gotten so good at this particular potion. Maybe one day she can forget how to make it when people aren’t in so much pain. Together they help Squirrel sit up, though the action makes a whimper escape his throat. She soothes him with a wordless sound as Gawain gets to work, bracing him and weaving vines to help support him and brace against the jostling of the horse.

“Good lad,” Gawain says when they’ve finished and Squirrel is upright, breathing hard. Pym wants to say they should take something so he can lay down, but there’s nothing that will make this comfortable and time is of the essence, “that should help.”

Gawain has used his vines to help lend support and Pym knows how to adjust them. Still the journey is terrifying. Or the pain of it is. In the back of her head she knows they may be able to make it home before Squirrel dies, but they won’t be able to make it home before her symptoms set in. That is nothing to stop her, she can ride through the pain, but hearing Gawain describe the bumps and what they might do makes her keenly aware of how little time she may have. She shoves the knot of panic aside and smiles at Squirrel who looks up at her.

“Where’re we going?”

“Home,” she says, “to get you better.”

He nods and Pym can only hope that what she’s bringing will keep him dazed and unaware. It might be the last kindness she can give. But she hopes not. She hears the sound of hooves and looks out the window to see Goliath and the other horse being led out. The second one looks less than thrilled at the snow but he’s there. Much like Lancelot is capable of inspiring bravery in others, Goliath is capable of doing the same. She jumps when she feels Gawain’s hand on her shoulder.

“Let me do this for you,” he says.

She hesitates but the look he gives her silences her as she lifts her arms so he can wind the vines around her chest. It’s another sobering reminder of what is to come.is it better to die back at the village? She isn’t sure. But she’s glad that she won’t be doing it alone either way.

“He’s frightened,” Gawain says.

“I know,” Pym agrees.

“I was talking about Lancelot.”

“I know that too,” she admits, hanging her head. She knows if this was any other circumstance he’d—well he would probably try to stop her. Probably succeed too. But it’s Squirrel and there’s no sense in being upset about what has already happened, “you’ll look after him if it comes to it, right?” She asks tentatively.

“We all will,” Gawain says. He looks up at her, “he knows being back in our village with you won’t be easy,” he says.

Pym feels her mouth go dry. It’s very low on the list of things to be worried about at the moment—especially now that Gawain is winding vines around her chest to make sure she has some kind of support when she starts bleeding internally, but she would be lying if the fear hadn’t crossed her mind. She’s not sure what being there with him will be like. She’s been in the carnage of his work before but she knows this will be different. How can it not be? She nods to Gawain, knowing that he’s right. It won’t be easy, but so much of this hasn’t been. Why would it start now?

“It’s alright,” she says, “I don’t think I’d want to go there without him, if that makes sense,” she admits, “I wish you were coming as well.”

“My time there was over long ago,” he says, “long before any of this.”

She nods. Leaving someone like Tristain here without someone like him would be foolish. She’s not anxious to have witnesses but she would rather bring them both if Gawain wanted to come. But even if this is her world, she knows the world at large will keep spinning once she’s gone. That protecting Guinevere is the thing that matters more than any other. She would die for the world Guinevere is building. It makes her sad that she can’t even say goodbye to her or to any of them. She thought she could at least get that.

Gawain slices through the brace and she can see how to tighten it when the time comes. He put it to the side as the door opens and Lancelot comes in. The situation is a nightmare but seeing him make her relax. Even just a little bit. Lancelot will do anything to keep her and Squirrel safe, she knows they are in good hands. The only hands she would trust besides Gawain’s. Gawain nods at Lancelot and straightens up.

“They’re ready.”

“We’re leaving out the window,” he says.

“Wait, could you tell—“

She stops as the air seems to die in the room. She turns to see Morgana there and panic makes her mind go blank. Morgana appears when people are about to pass. Gawain and Lancelot step towards Squirrel and she finds herself doing the same. Death cannot have him, not when they’ve just found something that could help. Morgana gives a rattling breath.

“You need to go,” she says, “I cannot control it.”

There is something sorrowful in her voice. Pym nods and out of the corner of her eye she sees Lancelot pick up Squirrel. Morgana’s head snaps towards them and a brief flicker of discomfort passes over Lancelot’s face, but he shoves it aside. Pym fumbles behind her as Gawain shoves the swords into her hands. When she steps towards the window, Morgana is in front of her suddenly. That same rattling breath escaping her lips.

“Hurry!” She says and it sounds like a plea.

Pym goes for the window but Morgana bars her way again. She wants to shout to go ahead and leave her but she finds it’s difficult suddenly to breathe. She barely manages to close her eyes as heat erupts near one side of her face. Vaguely remembering the window, she staggers towards it. Lancelot’s arms band around her and drag her the rest of the way out. He immediately turns her away from the Fire, his hands cupping her cheeks.

“Look at me,” he says, “did you—“

“No, I closed my eyes,” she says, opening them and looking at him, “I didn’t look,” there’s a bright lick of Flame out of the corner of her eye.

“She said to hurry!” Tristain snaps at them.

“Wait the book—“ Pym starts, panic crashing into her.

“I have it,” Lancelot says, taking it out from where it’s wedged under his arm.

They exchange the book and the swords and Pym finds she can breathe easier. For now. Lancelot straps them on and comes to Squirrel. It’s a smooth motion for him to lift the boy into Goliath’s saddle and climb after him. Pym gets onto her mount as well, ignoring how her fingers shake when she does. It’s nerves, she tells herself. Just nerves. She looks back at the place quickly but the flames are too bright to see much of anything. The flames start to dim and she knows she has to trust that they can handle this. She just prays that whatever drew Morgana to them has passed long enough for them to get home.

Getting home is what matters now, even if it doesn’t feel like home.

Still she finds herself looking for Guinevere, even if she cannot see her. It’s sad how history repeats and once again a friendship is broken apart without a word. Not in the sense that they aren’t friends Pym knows firsthand that it’s hard to be friends with a ghost. And not all ghosts are like Gawain. She tightens her grip on the reins and looks at Goliath, Squirrel and Lancelot. Whatever adjustments Lancelot has made to make this more comfortable for Squirrel are finished and he nods at her.

“Let’s go,” Lancelot says, digging his heels into Goliath.

Without a word from her, the horse follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos/comments/tumblr messages. I am always so excited to read them and to answer your questions or share further info (without spoilers). I would love your feedback on this chapter! Onwards!


	94. Spark: Part 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for illness and my apologies I once again got distracted from writing a summary. It will be up soon, I just prioritized the chapters but I promise I will recap everything before the illness plot wraps up for those who opted to continue that way.

His heart doesn’t stop pounding.

He has to look back at Pym several times to assure himself that she’s still here. Even though he can smell her, even though smell has always been how he’s found her. Smell isn’t enough, he finds. Or maybe it’s the way that Squirrel’s scent has changed with the sickness that has taken hold of him. The idea that Pym could be dead from Fey Fire is one that he hadn’t thought of in some time. Much less her dying while he was standing right there. He cannot believe she managed to close her eyes in time. That the only redness in them is from her earlier tears and that things aren’t worse.

Of all the times for it to happen.

The again, why would anything about it be convenient? Nothing about her has been so far. And why around Morgana? Nothing had triggered it before and she had been around all of them. It wasn’t just to protect, it was also to help. He knows these are things he needs to consider and ponder out, though at the moment it’s truly hard to focus on anything but the distance between them and a place he hoped never to return to. He pushes their pace as much as he dares, if they keep it up they should get to the village with a day to spare. Judging by how soon after showing symptoms people usually wound up dying. If it moves faster through Pym—

He cuts the thought off swiftly. He’s not getting lost in it. Not with Pym dying of sickness or with her dying because Tristain made unaided Fire. Squirrel is mostly dazed and it makes him think how many times before he’s wished for his silence. Now as he shivers in front of him, almost lost to the world, Lancelot would give anything for the chatter. Either way, Squirrel seems to have a knack for doing the exact opposite of what Lancelot desires in any given moment. He can only hope that changes. He cannot even dare think that he wants Squirrel to not get better so the boy will do the opposite.

“Why do you keep looking back?” Pym questions, bringing her mount alongside his, “do we need to go back?”

“No,” he says, “she knows how to withdraw the Fire,” he says.

“And she has Gawain and Kaze,” she points out. He nods, “so why—“

“You were close to getting hurt,” he says.

She nods. Something close to a smile comes to her lips but it’s a hollow thing.

“It’s not my first Fey Fire,” she points out. She shrugs, “and no-one got blinded or stabbed this time. So I’d say we’re moving in the right direction.”

He tries to smile back but Squirrel is a sobering reminder of what is happening. He would be the one to want them to laugh but it’s impossible to do it. It’s strange. Riding away has always given him a sense of freedom. Tracking has always been his escape, one of the few that was permitted. Even though there were people with him, they didn’t care what happened to him and if it came down to it, he would be on his own. The idea of being on his own wasn’t bothersome. Now he can think of nothing worse, especially under these circumstances.

“I’m alright,” Pym voices.

“For now,” he says.

She presses her lips together, looking down and tightening her fingers on the reins. He knows that he’s crossed some line with those words. It seems to be something he’s developing a knack for. But her silence is a level beyond her usual arguments. He doesn’t blame her for not wanting to speak on it, he doesn’t even want to think about it. He just wants to—fight it. Fix it. Do something. Talking has never been something he places great value on. He’s practiced in it, but it’s like the Fire. It’s new. It’s awkward. And right now it’s the only thing he has.

“Sorry,” he says.

“No, you’re right,” she says, “We were sleeping in the same room, I touched Squirrel’s shoulder that night to let him know we were back. I may already have been infected,” she shrugs, “but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t leave him alone or risk someone else.”

He loathes how that makes sense to him. It’s as simple and it’s not. He bites back the urge to say that isn’t something she should do. It’s Squirrel, he shouldn’t be alone. What she says makes sense. At the same time he wants to scream that she shouldn’t. That she’s not someone who should be sacrificing themselves for anyone. Him, Sauirrel, Guinevere—she needs to survive. She’s one of the people the world needs. But he cannot say that when the wound of him sacrificing himself is still so fresh.

“I know,” he says.

“Then why do you look so angry?” She questions.

He looks at her in surprise. He’s angry, but he thought he was hiding it. He’s angry and worried and a storm of other emotions. He wants to say he’s not angry, but he is. He wishes that it wasn’t the case but her disregard for her life is infuriating. In the same way it’s infuriating how she doesn’t leave him alone, now she doesn’t excuse his past but pushes him to be better. It’s infuriating and painful and God help him, he cannot fathom the idea that she won’t be around to do it for longer.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says, “either of you.”

“I don’t want to die!” She says emphatically, “I’ve been afraid of not being around you since—“ her brows draw together and her finds himself oddly interested in her answer, “I guess since before we got on that ship the first time, when Squirrel had to hide your marks.”

The answer surprises him more than he cares to admit. She was afraid of him and angry with him for a lot of things. He thought it was guilt that drove her to dismiss the idea of him leaving, not the desire to have him around. It’s probably a combination of all of those things and more. He doesn’t understand how someone can feel so many contradictory emotions and manage to sort through them the way she does. But she does it. With the kind of Grace he never would have thought existed in a Fey.

“That’s a long time,” he says.

“I know,” she admits, pushing her hair behind her ear. She flexes her fingers and he sees the white knuckle grip she has on the reins.

“Loosen your hand,” he says, “your fingers are going to cramp.

She looks down, not seeming to realize her iron grip on the reins. She flexes and relaxes her fingers. She isn’t the strongest rider but she isn’t afraid of being on a horse as far as he knows. Stupidly, he realizes the reason for her trembling tight grip. They’re alive, they have the essentials. There is no time to waste.

But she isn’t dressed for this.

“Where’s your cloak?”

“It’s ash I expect,” she says, “it’s fine—“ he pulls his horse to a stop, “what are you doing? We don’t have time to go back,” she frowns and then smoothes her face out.

“What else?”

“Gawain made me one of those, in case I got sick sooner,” she said and his chest tightens, “but it’s fine, I’ll make one when we camp.”

In case isn’t something he wants to consider. He looks down at Squirrel who is propped up, more like Bors’ doll than a boy. But he’s not bleeding like he should be. He’s stiff and tucked into his cloak. If the brace is helping, if it’s making him even a little more comfortable, is it worth going back for. The idea of both of them being like that is nauseating. He can brace Squirrel. He doesn’t know how he can do it to both of them, but the idea of either being in pain isn’t one he can accept. Not like this. He sees Pym sigh and watches her breath plume, reminding him that it’s more than just the impending illness.

“Come on,” she says.

“Wait,” he tells her. She looks at him, opening her mouth to argue and he shakes his head, “here.”

He undoes the cloak he’s wearing and passes it to her. She looks at him hesitantly but takes it. They both know the cloak isn’t exactly a necessity for him. Between his layers and his body heat, it isn’t a great loss. It wouldn’t matter if it was. He holds the horse steady as she fastens it and drags the hood up over he hair. It’s laughably large on her, but it helps protect her against the cold. She looks at him from inside the cowl he’s hidden in most of his life and he finds it oddly hard to see.

“Thank you,” she says.

He nods, not trusting his voice and digs his heels into Goliath who snorts a warning at the command. He smoothes an apologetic hand down the horses neck and they continue down the road. It’s distracting to see glimpses of his cloak out of the corner of his eye. But when he looks at her she seems far less tense. When he looks at Squirrel, he seems the same. It’s good, or as good as anything can be right now. He pushes their pace a bit more, taking advantage of the momentary luck. Knowing full well that it could run out. Nightfall comes too soon and though they push for a while, eventually he makes them stop.

“We’re rearing here,” he says.

“We can keep going,” she starts but he shakes his head.

“You both need rest,” he says.

She nods though it looks like if it were up to her, she would keep going. He understands the sentiment but he also knows they need to rest. They have to do what they can to help Squirrel hold on until they are able to get there and figure out what to do. That means letting him rest and keeping his strength up. He sets up camp off the road and finds they are well outfitted by the Raiders for this journey. As he sets up Pym sits with Squirrel and cooks the broth that they’ve been given. She gently rouses him from his drugged state and coaxes him to drink.

“Where are we?”

“We’re going home,” she reminds him, “remember?” He nods but if he does or doesn’t is anyone’s guess.

“Did I get everyone sick?”

“No,” Pym says, “we checked.”

“I got you sick,” he says.

“No,” she cuts in instantly, “I got myself sick. But it doesn’t matter. We’re going home and we’ll find a way to get us both better,” he manages a half hearted skeptical look and he sees Pym falter for a moment.

“We’re going to your home,” he says crouching front of the boy, “and we will figure it out there,” Squirrel hesitates, “have I ever lied to you?”

“No,” he says.

“So believe what I’m saying,” Lancelot says.

Squirrel looks at him for a moment and Lancelot hides his panic. He’s able to hide everything from most people. And what he cannot hides the drugs and the sickness make hard to see. Squirrel wavers for a moment and then is promptly sick in the snow in front of him. Lancelot steadies the boy. There’s only a little blood at the end and it’s bright, not the black blood that he’s afraid of seeing. Squirrel all but collapses into his chest and he holds him. Even as he weakly pushes at him.

“M’gonna get you sick,” he says.

“You cannot,” Lancelot reminds him, “why not?”

“You’ve got powers,” Squirrel remembers, “you’re Fey.”

Pym looks horrified above Squirrel’s head but quickly shoves the expression aside. The shiver that goes through her has nothing to do with the cold. Lancelot pushes his own concern aside and guides the boy into a more upright position, wiping the side of his mouth. Squirrel seems to have trouble focusing on him and he picks him up, carrying him into the tent and getting him settled. He makes sure Squirrel is on his side in case. Half asleep, he looks at him.

“Where’s your ugly horse?”

“We know he’s not ugly,” Lancelot says.

“Right,” Squirrel says, “I was just trying to slow you down.”

Lancelot thinks of slowing down Abbot Wicklow using everything that Squirrel did. Including spitting in his face. He knows the boy has saved his life in many obvious ways, but he’s saved them in not so obvious ones as well. He nods at the half asleep boy who he hopes doesn’t die.

“You‘re very brave,” Lancelot says.

“It’s cause I’m a Knight,” Squirrel remembers, “and you’re my Squire.”

“It’s my honor,” Lancelot says.

Squirrel smiles at that and dozes into a fitful sleep. Lancelot can feel a tightness in his throat that’s alarmingly physical, though he knows there’s no one with a garrote near him. He doesn’t want to leave Squirrel at all, but one look at Pym tells him that she is not going to eat or drink unless she is forced to. He turns the snow over with his boot and puts broth in one of the bowls, handing it to her.

“You need to drink,” he reminds her. She open her mouth to protest and then takes the bowl.

“You do too,” she reminds him, looking at him pointedly.

Sensing he’s not going to get out of it, he takes some for himself and sits next to her. Neither of them speaks, he knows they’re both intent on listening to Squirrel breathe. He keeps breathing, long after they’ve finished their soup and he’s doused the fire. He uses Fey Fire to keep the horses warm, keeping it low enough that it’s difficult to see. Pym is running her fingers through Squirrel’s hair and quietly reassuring him as he falls back to sleep.

“We could keep watch?” She suggests.

“Come here,” Lancelot says.

She takes less convincing to come over, her need for sleep and heat winning out against everything else. His cloak has helped to keep her warm but she still relaxes further when she’s tucked against his chest. It feels far more intimate than the last time they huddled together for warmth, winding up pressed spine to spine. But it’s been weeks of them sleeping together out of something other than necessity. It just makes him think of that first time, how the greatest threat there was damaging her reputation and chances at a marriage she says she doesn’t want. Which he is selfishly glad for. The idea of her wanting that made him feel as though he had swallowed something unbearably hot. Now he finds he would take the pain of that over the pain of what might be coming. He forces himself to steady his breathing, though he has no desire to actually sleep. It helps give Pym something to focus on so she can drift off.

He holds himself in that half asleep state, aided by the sound of her breathing and the scent of her, wrapped in his cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Thank you as always for your engagement with the story, it means the world to me. Onwards!


	95. Spark: Part 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So warning for illness again, though it's light in this chapter. As promised, I have the recap for the past few chapters [HERE](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/post/635180110805336064/a-long-overdue-recap-of-the-past-few-chapters-of).

She watches them ride, something bittersweet aching in her chest.

It’s not a sight she thought she would see like this. She expected it at some point, them riding off on knightly adventures. Like Gawain. Maybe she even expected one day for Squirrel to get hurt. But she expected to be able to help, if she was around. Now watching them ride ahead, she wishes that was still something that scared her. What is actually happening is so much worse. She can’t fix Squirrel and she cannot take away the pain and fear Lancelot is going through. She can just hope that the Hidden know how crucial Squirrel is to their survival. That Nimue has a way to save him. Her connection with Nimue has always been something she treasured but there are things they didn’t talk about. She hopes whatever connection is formed is clearer.

“Pym.”

She looks up to see Lancelot in front of her. He was ahead of her. His eyes move across her and when she tries to straighten up her back aches. She didn’t realize how hunched over she was. He steadies Squirrel and reaches over, pressing the back if his hand to her forehead. She looks up at him and some of the panic leaves his eyes. He’s worried, she knows that. But he’s also worried that the illness has already taken hold of her. It moves fast with Fey, but they should have time before she gets bad.

“I’m fine,” she looks at the horse, “I just go lost in my thoughts, let’s keep going.”

He looks at her for another moment and then nods. Pym straightens up, hiding her discomfort in the cowl. It’s just some soreness. She’s not used to this kind of riding. She can’t let her own discomfort slow them down. Not with time running out. She wishes that all the roads weren’t looking the same so she could have a better sense of where they were. Logically she knows, but visually it’s a little disorienting. It also makes her think about the sea. She knows that she would have stayed on land to help Guinevere, but a part of her was looking forward to more adventures there.

She jumps when she sees Goliath is suddenly back.

Lancelot reaches over and attaches a lead to the bridle. A knot twists inside her at the realization that this isn’t just being lost in thought. It’s not just an ache in her back. She looks up at Lancelot whose closed off his emotions. Their eyes meet and she does her best to do the same. He lets her have the illusion of it anyway as he secures the lead to Goliath and they continue on. Embarrassment and fear mix together, but she refuses to give into the bile in the back of her throat. It’s not bad, not yet. She can face this with some scrap of dignity and stop slowing them down. It’s just death, after all, it’s a natural part of life. It’s something she knew was coming. Ever since Merlin said she wasn’t there. All the hope she tried to believe in, it all seems foolish.

She’s not one for miracles, no matter how Lancelot describes her.

She almost jumps when they stop and looks around. Something is vaguely familiar about where they are, but she knows that could be a trick. It’s becoming dark out, but they are stopping earlier than last time. Surely they cannot afford to do this. She doesn’t need to rest, they need to get to the village before she’s too sick to be of any use. When she opens her mouth to say this to Lancelot, she tastes sour and the air feels mercifully cold. She turns her head and it takes the world a moment to stop spinning. She knows it’s difficult to feel if you have a fever yourself, but it’s no great guess that they are headed in that direction. She tells herself she has to be brave. The only thing that could make this worse is wasting Lancelot’s time taking care of her.

“We should keep going. This is starting to look familiar,” she says.

“We’ll start at first light,” he says, something low and fearful in his voice.

She opens her mouth to reassure him and he looks at Squirrel purposefully. The riding is bad, it’s not something he should be doing. She walks her mount forward and looks at him. Black splotches dot his skin in much greater number. His body cannot take the constant jostling. Is stopping the right thing to do? Is any of this right? She forces herself not to panic and then not to feel worse when she reaches out a trembling hand and presses it to Squirrel’s neck. His heart is beating steadily and though he has a terrible fever, he’s breathing.

“First light,” she agrees.

Lancelot dismounts and gets Squirrel down. Pym swings herself off the horse as carefully as she can, before realizing that it’s a foolish idea. She grips the saddle as her legs buckle, keeping herself upright as best she can. The world tilts nauseatingly but she tightens her grip and shoves the desire back. She can do this. She forces herself to breathe through her nose, taking in the sharp cold air. Lancelot is by her side in a flash but she shakes her head.

“I’m alright,” she says, making sure her feet are as steady as they can be and opening her eyes, “let’s get somewhere for Squirrel to rest.”

He hesitates for a moment before recognizing the logic in her words. He doesn’t want to leave, but if he cannot be a few steps away than they are in for a lot more trouble. There’s still a bit ahead and if she has any hope of communicating with the Hidden, she knows he needs to be able to protect Squirrel. She nods to show she’s alright and he moves quickly. She forces herself to be as present as she can be, looking between him and Squirrel. It takes a long time and no time at all before the tent is pitched and he’s back.

“Wait here,” he says and there’s something like a plea in his voice that makes her nod.

He gets Squirrel settled and then returns, putting an arm around her waist. She puts hers around his shoulder and lets him help her to the Fire. He hasn’t even bothered with the pretense of a normal one, but she’s grateful for the bright green that flickers there. He gets the horses settled and then comes back, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. He doesn’t need to say anything. The look on his face says it all.

“It’s fine, we’re close,” she says, “it’s just a fever.”

He says nothing again but she can see that isn’t the answer he wants to hear. No more than it’s the one she wants to give. But it’s true. It won’t be as bad for a little longer and when it is, hopefully by then Squirrel will be alright. The fever isn’t even as terrible as his. She has nothing to be afraid of or complain about. She moves to do something except sit there and feel useless but Lancelot puts a hand on her shoulder.

“You should rest.”

“I can’t,” she says. He looks confused, “if I rest I’m going to start to panic so—I need to do something,” she smiles weakly, “and I cannot read that book one more time.”

If she does and sees that going to the temple is supposed to help, without knowing if there is a temple left there. Or how that’s supposed to help. She feels like she might truly go crazy. Or give into the pain she can feel blossoming in her skull. It’s another symptom, she knows that. But she cannot say it. She isn’t a brave Knight like them, but she can be a little brave. Even just like this. She smiles again and he nods, accepting her words and seeming to know not to push her right now. He heats more broth. Squirrel barely manages a few mouthfuls before he’s asleep again. Even though she knows she should eat it, it seems nauseating.

“I’m not hungry,” she says.

“I know,” he replies, “it’s the fever.”

She nods, telling herself it’s foolish to feel anything about hearing it said aloud. She knows it’s the fever. He hands her a cup of it and she hesitates to take it. Just the smell makes her stomach want to roll.

“I didn’t make it very hot,” he says.

“Is that supposed to help?” she asks, only half joking.’

“Plug your nose and drink it,” he advises.

She hesitates for another moment before forcing herself to do just that. It’s awful, but she gets it down all the same. Lancelot watches her as she presses her hand to her mouth and forces back the wave of nausea. It abates though and when she opens her eyes the world seems a little clearer. It’s a false, cruel hope but she’ll take the moments of feeling well. She meets Lancelot’s concerned gaze and tilts the mug to show him it’s empty. He looks at her in confusion and she smiles for real.

“My mother used to make me show her I had finished,” she says, “when I got sick,” she sets it down and rises her mouth with water, “I never thought I’d be showing it to you,” he says nothing, “though I’m not sure my mother ever looked as worried as you do.”

She means it as a teasing thing but he looks down, almost guilty. It really does feel as though they have slid back into old roles. She has no idea what lines she is crossing with him and she’s not sure he does either. The difference is that before she didn’t truly care what lines she crossed. He was a monster before he was anything else. And she had to remind herself of the sentiment that all Fey are brothers a lot more frequently than she is proud of. Now, though, when he looks down she feels terrible. And not in a physical way.

“You know no matter what happens, you’re going to be alright,” she says.

“Don’t do that,” he says and she tries not to shiver at the rasp of his voice.

“I just want you to know no matter what happens—“

“Nothing is going to happen to either of you,” he says.

There is something unforgiving in his eyes when he looks at her, like he’ll fight the sickness right out of her body before he lets her succumb to it. Irrationally, she wishes that it was so simple. That he could do something like that. But it’s not how the world works. He cannot fix them. He cannot fight this. It’s something beyond even the amazing things that he can do. She lays her hand on his knee and holds it there even when he stiffens at the contact.

“Whatever happens—“

“Nothing is going to happen.”

“Lancelot,” she sighs his name, half exasperated at how he’s acting. She’s used to being the one on the other side of the table. But he pushes aside any reassurance she tries to give, “it’s going to be alright.”

She tries to make the words as strong as she can but it’s difficult in the current circumstances. She wants to believe that’s the case but she doesn’t know. And that’s before she wrestles with what would come next, should the worst happen. Lancelot’s spent his entire life believing that hellfire is what happens to the Fey when they die. She knows he’s moved beyond that, but she can’t imagine the prospect has left his mind. It certainly hasn’t left hers. She doesn’t believe in what he believes, but being faced with crossing that journey sooner rather than later, she finds she’s not sure what to think about what comes next.

“You need to rest,” he says.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she replies with a shrug.

He stiffens and then seems to deflate slightly, moving closer to her. She’s been thankful for his abilities before, but now she’s truly grateful. She’s glad there’s one person here who can be nearby without the threat of them falling ill. Though she knows there’s others—she has to correct herself. She’s glad that he’s able to be around them and not get sick. She’s not sure if she’s brave enough to face what comes next on her own.

“You don’t need to reassure me,” he says finally, “you’re the one whose sick, you should save your strength.”

“Reassuring you makes me feel better,” she says, “like I’m not completely useless,” he looks surprised at her confession and she shrugs, pulling his cloak tighter around her, “and I want you to remember it, no matter what happens,” she feels her face get hot, “if it helps.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that and she doesn’t blame him. She’s not sure what to say about any of this. She’s not sure she has the time left to figure it out either. Which is a foolish, selfish thing to worry about when Squirrel is the one who needs more time. He’s a boy, she’s young but she’s grown. She’s had something of a life. A much more exciting life than she ever could have dreamed. Even if there are suddenly dozens of things she wishes that she had the time to do.

“I don’t want to rely on my memories,” he says.

She thinks of the things he’s had to remember and nods.

“I can’t blame you, all things considered.”

He hesitates a moment.

“I hate being powerless,” he says.

She smiles sympathetically.

“No, it’s not a very pleasant feeling,” she agrees. He looks over at her curiously and she shrugs, “I can’t fathom doing what you can do,” she says, “but feeling powerless—I understand that,” she looks at the corner of the Fire, “can I ask you for a favor?”

“Anything,” he says.

She doesn’t know why she’s suddenly nervous.

“Can you make sure it doesn’t happen in the village for me?” She asks, refusing to look over at him, “I always thought I’d die there and—so much has changed. I can’t stand the thought.”

He doesn’t touch her but he shifts closer to her, letting her know that he’s there in his own way.

“Is there somewhere you want to go?” He asks finally.

“Avalon,” she says, “there isn’t time to get there but if I do, could you take me there?”

“Yes,” he says.

She closes the distance between them and leans her head on his shoulder. A lot has changed. So much of her life is wonderfully different. But it’s a life she feels proud of. She wants different things though. Adventure and seeing the world and seeing Guinevere’s new kingdom. Mostly she wants to be around and see the people she cares about. She wants to have countless more nights in front of green Fires, feeling the warmth of Lancelot’s skin against her own.

“Are you scared about going home?” He asks.

“That doesn’t feel like my home,” she admits, “if that makes sense.”

“The island didn’t feel like my home either,” he offers.

“I’m glad you understand,” she says, “I’m glad you’re here,” his arm comes around her and she leans more heavily into him, suddenly glad that she doesn’t have to worry about supporting her aching head, “do you think either of our beliefs are right about what comes next?”

He hesitates a moment. She knows now is not the time to discuss such things. And she’s afraid of the answer. Either way, she finds she’s not anxious to find out what comes next. Not when there’s so much she still wants to do here.

“I think you should rest,” he says.

“Can you hear Squirrel?” She asks, “the cool feels nice,” she feels him nod and realizes she’s closed her eyes, “I just want to stay here for a little longer.”

“We can stay,” he promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments, kudos, Tumblr messages. I really appreciate them and find it so motivating to have people's feedback. I can't believe this little tugboat fic has turned into a 95 chapter mega fic, but I'm so glad there are still people reading it. Onwards!


	96. Spark: Part 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So another warning for illness, though this chapter is a bit more focused on the Sky People's village which is in ruins so, all that. I don't usually put trigger warnings for that kind of stuff but just a heads up.

The path is immediately familiar as he leads the horses there.

It’s strange to be returning under these circumstances. He’s come back to villages he’s destroyed, he’s even returned with Pym and Squirrel. But never to their village. The only times he’s taken Fey back to their villages like this has been to lure the other stragglers back. He knows he would have let Squirrel flee as he did, he had no use for little ones and he couldn’t do more than give them a chance at survival. He may even have hesitated at killing Pym, like he did with Kaze. But he knows there’s a good chance that if he had been on this road with them the last time he was here, they both would have died. It’s a sickening thought, given how badly he wants them to live.

The last time he was here, the air was heavy with smoke an ash. Now it’s crisp and cold, with only the snow drifting through it. It would be something he would note as an inconvenience. The cold sometimes makes things harder to smell. Any Fey who escaped would have used it to their advantage, though in his experience the panic usually made them foolish. They made mistakes. But there’s no need for cover or hiding at the moment and no amount of cold can erase the smell when he picks it up. He’s good at not getting overwhelmed by smells. Or choosing the ones he lets overwhelm him. Squirrel and Pym are very firmly in the latter.

Which is why he smells their dead kin first.

He knew that it would be something to occur, but he’s not prepared for the panic that it summons in him. Families usually have a common thread in their scents, like different shades of the same color. Closer relatives have closer shades. And these are close relatives. Squirrel is half awake at best, though their luck has waned with getting him into a stupor. Lancelot can smell him mixed with the rot of a decomposing body. Not burned. Just decomposing. The scent of Pym’s family is mixed with ash. He knows what was done to her kin. What was done to all of their kin. He says nothing as they move closer. Pym recognizes it first and he hears her breath catch at something familiar.

“We’re close,” she says.

He nods, stopping them and looking at her.

“It won’t be as you remember,” he warns.

“I know,” she drags her eyes to Squirrel and he notes the splotch on her cheek as the sickness progresses, “let’s go.”

He nods and moves them forward. He has to keep Squirrel with him but he’s used more rope to secure her to the saddle. He knows she’s secure but he doesn’t want her twisting too much. If she falls to the side it will keep her there but he’s seen the way she touches her temples and it won’t be kind to her head. She’s staunchly refused to take any of the potions that keep Squirrel half asleep. It’s not a luxury they have while she’s riding alone. The horses move forward until they crest the top of a hill. He stops them again as they look down at the ruins of the Sky People’s Village.

There’s less stone.

But not enough time has passed for everything to be gone. There’s skeletons of houses, charred and twisted by smoke. The mudded walls are chipped and damaged, but some houses almost look like they are only missing the roof. Like they are almost inhabitable. Pym’s eyes are fixed on a spot and he follows it, instinctively turning Squirrel away even though the boy’s eyes are closed. A tremor that has nothing to do with the sickness races across Pym’s frame as she stares at the skeletons still tied to the crucifixes.

“You just leave them there?” She asks.

“Sometimes,” he admits.

Her throat bobs.

“Can you smell who they are?”

It’s a fair question. He knows where it’s going. What she wants to know. He wants to tell her they will do that later but he’s not sure she’s physically capable of leaving without knowing. Squirrel is asleep and he knows neither of them can smell this like he can. He pushes Goliath forward, more into the village. They stop nearby and he focuses, taking a deep breath. He doesn’t dare hope but there’s something like it that gets dashed as the familiar smells hit his nose.

It’s a cruel thing that he recognizes all three.

He looks at Pym and it shows on his face. She presses a hand to her mouth and he’s not sure if it’s emotion or illness that makes her sick off the side of the horse. He can’t blame her for the reaction. He can just move forward and steady her as best he can. Steady both of them. He pulls out the waterskin and hands it to her. She stays hunched over for a minute, heaving but the broth doesn’t give her stomach much to expel. She looks up at him.

  
“Tell me,” she says.

“Bors, you,” he points at two and looks at the final one, “Squirrel.”

“My mother was in the tent I ran from,” she says.

He looks at the remains of the tallest skeletons of the group that smell like her. It could be her father or grandfather or both. It’s difficult to say. Separating the men from the women and children is something they do, but the men usually die fighting. Witches are burned. Men are quartered. But it’s all a matter of what there is time for. The Sword was what mattered the most here. She looks at the other two skeletons. They’re smaller. Lancelot has seen so many bodies reduced to skeletons, he knows they are women. Mothers. Their mothers. Pym’s mother has been burned too, that much he can guarantee if she was in the tent that Pym escaped from. Squirrel’s father died different but he doesn’t dare say it. He hears her fumbling and turns to see her struggling with the rope around her waist.

“We have to get them down,” she says.

She’s frustrated enough that he watches the vines appear on her skin before the rope falls. She dismounts and almost falls and he swings himself and Squirrel down. He manages to put a blanket over Squirrel, just in case he wakes up and comes to Pym as she pushes herself away and towards them.

“Let me—“

“Do not tell me not to help,” she says, turning towards him.

He’s surprised at how far the blue-green vines reach across her skin. He looks from her to the lake but sees nothing. Asking her if she hears anything right now isn’t going to be good. Her skin is pale and splotched with the heat but that doesn’t seem to matter to her. He knows her well enough to understand she’s going up there and the best thing that he can do is make sure she doesn’t break her neck in the process. He makes his way over with her. He forgets sometimes how short she is and how tall the crucifixes are.

“I’ll get them down,” he says.

  
“No,” she starts, “I will—“

“They are strung up on the ground and then raised,” he says, keeping his voice as neutral as he can, “so no-one can reach them. You cannot climb up.”

She opens her mouth and then seems to realize the logic in what he’s saying. It’s a cruel, cruel thing and it’s not something he ever wanted to tell her in the shadow of her family’s skeletons. But he doesn’t have a choice. The only thing that could make this worse would be her trying to climb it and breaking her neck in the process. She looks at the wood and the skeletons and then back at him. The vines across her skin retreat as she does and her scent lessens somewhat, though he selfishly wishes it wouldn’t.

“How do we get them down?”

He doesn’t think the charred wood of the pyre will support his weight. He has no idea what the Sky Folk do with their dead. But he knows how he can get them down.

“I’ll light the pyres and when they’re lower, we’ll get them down,” He says. She grips his wrist.

“Use the Fey Fire?”

He nods, he can do that request. It would not be easy to start regular fire with the state of the wood. The Fey Fire makes quick work of the pyre and the bottom part of the crucifix, he’s able to steady the rest of it. The skeleton doesn’t add much weight. He guides the first one, Bors’ mother, down and lets Pym undo what is left of the ropes. They do the others, working in tandem to get them down and to get the bones free. When the group is down, he comes back over to her. She’s lowered the arms so they are by their sides, still laying on their crosses. She seems to almost be in shock. He can’t blame her, even if it’s something they can’t afford right now.

“What do you do with your dead?” He asks.

“We burn them, on top of the temple,” she says, “with offerings.”

He nods and sets to work, fashioning something they can use to move the skeletons. Once the planks are lashed together, they move them onto it. Her fingers tremble the whole time, but he’s not sure his would be better in this situation. He remembers being sick when he saw the Ash Folk burning as well. He gets the stretcher attached to the horses.

“Can you lead them?” He says.

She nods and takes their reins. Squirrel is still unconscious, but he stirs as he picks him up. Lancelot is careful that he doesn’t see the ruins of the village, only the trees and the sky. It’s a testament to how sick Squirrel is that he doesn’t try to twist around. He just looks and then focuses on Lancelot.

“Are we home?”

“Almost,” he says, “close your eyes, we’ll be there when you open them.”

For once he listens and Lancelot wants to scream with how unfair it is. He doesn’t and just adjust the blankets around the boy as Pym leads them towards the temple. It’s not very far but he’s terrified of the split second between when Squirrel exhales and when he inhales. He’s afraid of the boy dying afraid in this place. He can suddenly understand Pym’s hesitation in coming here. He wishes that he had understood it sooner. She hesitates momentarily and he inhales, pushing the other scents and thoughts aside. The burial pyre is easy to smell.

“It’s up there,” he says.

“It curves to get there,” she says, “there’s another way, come on,” she says, leading them from the smell. He looks at her curiously as the ground starts to level out some, “this is how they used to bring the bodies up there. There was another path the mourners would take.”

“Perhaps you should go that way,” he says.

  
“Let’s get them up there first,” she says, “if the Hidden want us to take a certain path, we’ll know soon enough.”

As they walk he recognizes the tracks that have been dug into the earth over bodies being carried up there. They’re deep, multiple bodies have been brought here. Together they make their way in a wide spiral that opens to a hill, the pyre is next to a rock. His feet falter. It’s close to where he first found Squirrel, closer than he was expecting it to be. They make their way up to the rock and he settles Squirrel down.

“You said we weren’t there yet,” Squirrel complains.

“I said that when you opened your eyes you would be,” Lancelot says, “stay here.”

He helps Pym get them onto the lower slab, one that he can smell the dead Sky Folk on. If they were whole, they wouldn’t fit. As it is, they only do because they put the makeshift sled on it. She looks at it and at the stone.

“We need offerings,” she says.

“What kind of offerings?”

“Flowers, plants—“ she looks around at the snow.

Lancelot nods and goes into the pack, laying down the things they can afford to spare. Pym shakes her head and he lays down a few others that they cannot. She smiles apologetically and he knows this isn’t either of their first choices. From inside the cloak, she pulls out a bit of rope and also lays it onto the pyre. He supposes that is how this is supposed to work. Offerings aren’t supposed to be things that are easy to give up, he knows that from the beliefs that he was raised in. From the blood that he gave in the Ash Folk temple.

“Can you light it so it doesn’t burn too fast?” She asks.

He nods, not sure what bearing that has on this but doing it all the same. He doesn’t use much Fire, instead lighting several much smaller ones over the top of it. Pym looks down at the bodies silently for a moment before she opens her mouth.

“We’re sorry you had to wait so long for us to return,” she says, “but we hope this lets you find peace. We give thanks to the light. We are born in the dawn—“ she glances purposefully at him, “to pass—“

“To pass in the twilight,” he says as Squirrel also mutters the words, half delirious.

As they stand there, he watches the blue-green vines creep across Pym’s skin. They’ve grown stronger as she’s used her magic more frequently, but again he’s struck by how many there are. They’ve gone from her neck, to her cheeks and one even crosses the bridge of her nose. When he looks at Squirrel, he sees that his have been summoned out as well.

“The Hidden are with us,” Pym says, sounding slightly dazed.

Lancelot finds he can feel something as well. Something he doesn’t know how to explain. As if some great force is examining him. It’s interested in his Fire. That much he can say. But there’s a recognition in it as well. It feels like being examined by something with great interest. Like being hungry and faced with the prospect of food. The dark green of his Fire begins to lighten, far more like it does when he connects to the Green. When it becomes the uncontrollable thing.

They’ve made a terrible mistake.

There was a reason the Ash Folk were banished. The Hidden want his Fey Fire and instead of coming here for help, they’ve given it to them. He can withstand the brightness and the heat, but Pym and Squirrel are next to him. He has to take the Fire back, but when he raises his hand, the sky darkens. Pym inhales sharply and looks at him.

“They want the Fire!” He calls to her over the crackling.

She hesitates for only a moment and he can’t blame her. He hesitates as well. Is giving them the Fire really a bad thing if they help Squirrel and Pym? But Pym nods to him and goes towards Squirrel to protect him from the light. Lancelot moves towards the Fire, still connected to it like he is to all his Flame. There are several loud popping sounds and before he can reach it, the Fire starts spitting sparks into the air. Sparks that move as though they are caught up in an invisible wind.

They don’t act like regular sparks.

Fey Fire doesn’t spark. It just burns.

The green sparks get caught up and move purposefully, drifting first and then moving faster. Lancelot sees where they’re going and before he can stop it or get in the way, Pym jumps back. The sparks move towards her regardless, with a purpose that would be beautiful if not for the fact that it’s his Fey Fire. He cannot reach her before the Fire takes her and he has no way to stop it without touching it again.

Powerless, he can only watches as it descends on Pym.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love. Thank you to everyone who commented, kudosed or sent me Tumblr messages. Let me know what you thought! Onwards!


	97. Spark: Part 14

It’s hot.

It’s shocking when she thinks how much she’s burned over the past few days. Her eyes before she cried, Tristain’s Fire, the fever, she didn’t know there were so many ways to burn. She seems to be going through all of them, except maybe the one that involves actual fire. She throws her hands up instinctively, though she knows those won’t help her. Distantly she thinks she can hear Lancelot shout, but it’s hard to hear anything above the roar and crackle of the Fire. It seems to come from all sides, dropped on her by some kind of invisible wind that she knows is not natural.

Then the whispers start.

She’s not afraid of Lancelot’s Fire, but she knows it will kill her. She is afraid of the whispers that she knows will torture her before the Fire gets to her. She thought the Pox would take her, not some combination of Lancelot’s Fire and the Hidden. The voices whisper over each other frantically, like a chorus all vying to be heard above each other. That means that none of them can be understood. She catches fragments of words, vowels and syllables, but nothing like an actual sentence. But she can hear confusion in the whispers and she doesn’t blame them, she’s pretty confused herself. Tentatively she starts to lower her hands.

“Keep your eyes closed,” a very familiar voice says, not shouting but suddenly louder than the whispers, “it helps.”

“Nimue?” She says, ignoring the advice and lowering her hands.

Immediately she closes her eyes again. She’s forgotten how painful it is to look at Lancelot’s Fey Fire when it’s uncontrolled like this. But she can hear Nimue. She’s aware of her the way she’s always been aware of her. She can smell the lingering scents of incense and offerings that always cling to her clothes and hair. She swears she can hear the way Nimue walks, all the small details that she knows better than she knows herself sometimes.

“I didn’t know if you would come back,” Nimue says.

“How do I know this is you?” Pym says, “it could be a trick—“ she cuts herself off, realizing that this is not a good time to voice her own misgivings with the Hidden. Not when they seem to be the thing standing between her and the Fey Fire, “what is this?”

“It’s me and it’s the Hidden,” Nimue says, “we’re the same.”

“But you wanted to be free,” Pym protests. The wind choruses and the voices that are whispering start to moan in pain, “what did I do?” Pym questions, realizing the voices being in pain is not good. No matter how bad they are, “Nimue?”

“You’re right, this wasn’t what I wanted,” Nimue says, “but I changed. This isn’t about what I wanted. That’s passed.”

It hurts to hear her or this version of her say that. The frustration in her voice sounds very much like her friend, though Pym admits she’s not certain. Maybe it’s also not as easy as this being Nimue or not anymore. Maybe she’s become one with this whispering chorus. If anyone could drown them out and rise above them, it would be Nimue. She’s been able to do that for as long as Pym has known her. Even if sometimes doing that isolates her. It’s also the thing that may have saved them all, over and over again.

“Are you alright?” Pym asks hesitantly.

“I am,” Nimue says, though it doesn’t sound like she’s saying she’s alright. More that she’s saying she exists, “I think that’s enough.”

“You sound like Gawain,” Pym says and a familiar laugh echoes.

She half thinks she can hear Gawain’s sigh in the voices. She always knew, somewhere deep down, that she would be the one left behind in their trio. She wishes that she was as brave as Nimue and Gawain in the face of accepting what they’ve become. She can’t even say she’s not afraid of dying. Is that what she’s doing right now? It’s hot, but other than that if this is hell it’s not as unpleasant as Lancelot’s stories made it sound. Though she thinks her heart is pounding too much for this to be hell or for her to be dead.

“Don’t be sad,” Nimue says.

“How can I not be sad?” Pym questions, “you gave up everything for us. I should have let you go on that ship instead of wishing so badly you would stay when I knew it wasn’t what you wanted.”

The wind seems to grasp her hands and she feels a few hot pinpricks that make her gasp. It’s like being burned by cooking oil, but much worse. She doesn’t think the pain even really registers yet. Even if it’s just a few dots on her hands. But the wind grasps them like Nimue used to, right down to how it presses between her fingers and curves like thumbs on her palms. It’s unnerving since she still has her hands pressed to her face.

“This isn’t your fault,” Nimue says.

“You don’t need to reassure me,” Pym scolds, wondering how she’s slotted into Lancelot’s place from last night.

“And you don’t need to feel guilty,” Nimue says, “everything is going to be alright.”

“How do you know that?” Pym demands, “we’re only here because your father said we should come here. I don’t even know how to fix this.”

“Yes you do,” Nimue says, “the answer’s below your feet.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She questions.

“It means exactly what I’m saying. It’s below your feet,” the last notes of her words seem to be pulled by the chorus and Pym feels her heart leap into her throat, “you’ll find it there.”

“Nimue? Nimue!” She drops her hands, reaching for the edges of the wind that start to pull them away, “Nimue!”

The wind blows past her, taking the heat with it. The moment she feels the cool air on her face, she turns to see the sparks cascade up, only to suddenly wink out as Lancelot takes back his Fire. Her feet nearly take her with the sparks but arms band around her middle and she finds herself spun around to face Lancelot. He holds her at an arm’s length, examining her again for any sign of injury. Worry is plain on his features as he looks at her, he’s nearly lost in the panic. Pym steps back to help them both, she’s aware she narrowly avoided being burned. There’s no sense in risking it.

“I’m alright,” she says, “we have to go to the temple.”

He nods and picks Squirrel up. It takes very little time but each second seems impossibly longer. He follows as she goes as quickly as she can down a path she barely remembers. It’s like her feet remember it more than her mind does. Which makes no sense, but she thinks the breeze might be guiding her. They go under the arch and into the main room of the temple. She thinks it’s going to be difficult to locate what they need to do, but it’s not.

It’s laid out on the altar.

Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of Lenore’s body. She doesn’t look dead, or she wouldn’t if not for the wound and the blood on her gown. But the rest of her looks whole. She still has that stillness about her, the one that always terrified Pym. The one Nimue could never fully manage. The Fingers on Lenlore’s throat stand golden against her skin. Pym looks at Lancelot who seems like he might be ill. It’s not the hungry look she used to see when her Fingers came out, but more like someone faced with the prospect of eating rotted meat. It looks like he did when he was in the market.

“We need to put her to rest,” Pym says.

Despite all of that, Lancelot moves forward.

“Take Squirrel,” he says.

“Wait,” Pym grips his arm. She doesn’t know how to ask the question in a polite way but the wounds on Lenore’s body are unmistakably from a sword, “did you kill her? I don’t think you can do this if you—did that.”

“No,” he says, “I didn’t kill her.”

Pym nods. She takes Squirrel from him as Lancelot approaches the body. He folds her hands over her breast and picks her up carefully, holding her so it only looks like she’s asleep. They make their way out and along the rockier path, back to where they burned the other bodies. They’re gone now, the Fey Fire has taken them away. He lays Lenore down.

“Stay here,” he says to her.

Pym nods, unable to turn away from the body. It isn’t long before Lancelot returns with armfuls of wood and sprigs of holly and photinia and cedar. Pym helps arrange the wood around Lenore’s body and add the branches to the wood and the offerings. Lancelot pulls flint and tinder from his pack and Pym can’t exactly argue with his logic. He offers it to her and she takes it, starting the fire. It’s not as awe inspiring as Lancelot’s Flame, but it is how the Sky Folk are usually cremated. It’s how Lenore would want to be, though Pym can’t say how she knows it. She fumbles the book out of her pocket and thumbs through to the back passages, the ones that seem to be less for healing.

“Lenore was the High Summoner, she served her people well,” she says, “she kept us safe. She—“ she realizes she cannot say all the lies the book says about Summoners. Not for her, “she loved her daughter,” she says, “more than anything in this world,” she looks down, “may Airimid’s breath push her down the great river, so her voice may join the chorus of our ancestors. We are born in the dawn—“

“To pass in the twilight,” they say with her.

She hopes, irrationally, that the sparks will happen again. That something will happens so she can ask how to save Squirrel. They didn’t come here to put people at rest, as horrible as that sounds, they came here to save him. They can’t have done this only for him to wind up on the pyre. That’s not something she can accept, it’s not something that she can even fathom. She strains to hear something but the only thing she can hear is the crackling of the fire as it consumes Lenore’s body.

“Can you add your Fey Fire?” She asks. Lancelot hesitates, “please. It’s how they showed up last time. I need to ask them how to do this.”

He nods and touches the fire, turning it the bright green. He steps next to her. He’s willing to do it but she can’t exactly blame him for not wanting to watch her be consumed by Fey Fire sparks. She holds her breath until she realizes what she’s doing. They can only wait as the flames do their work. Lenore’s body has been preserved by the Hidden, it takes longer than the others. But once the Fey Fire is introduced, it starts to go more. This time when the sparks start up again, Lancelot steps closer. But there’s a gust of wind that blows violently between them. Pym knows it’s a sign she should push him away, but she grips his forearm all the same, pulling him closer so that when the sparks shoot around them, they take them both.

“How do we save Squirrel?” She calls.

The whispers jostle with one another and she waits for Nimue’s voice to come to her. But instead they just get hotter and her vision starts to white out. Before she’s fully aware of what’s happening, the world seems to snap off like a candle blowing out.

When she opens her eyes, she’s standing on the shores of Avalon.

In front of her Lenore is standing and looking out at the water. There’s a look of peace on her face, something gentle that Pym isn’t sure she ever saw except when the High Summoner was looking at her daughter. Maybe it’s Nimue’s connection to the Isle that makes her smile. Lenore is already past the beach, but she hasn’t sunken below the waters. She’s just standing on them.

“How do I save him?” She asks.

“Is that your only question?” Lenore replies.

“Yes,” Pym says.

Lenore turns to her and Pym knows she has more questions but those don’t matter at the moment. She realizes that Lenore’s eyes move from her to the beads around her wrist and the book she holds in her hands. She waits for Lenore to look at her. Pym’s never felt comfortable around her, around any of this, but she needs their help. She doesn’t need her other questions answered.   
  
“Everything you need was in the temple,” she says, “if it hasn’t been destroyed,” Pym swallows tightly, “you need to trust in what the Hidden have designed.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Pym says. Lenore looks frustrated, “I was never allowed.”

“You were afraid, like so many of the Sky Folk have become.”

“I was afraid because you told us we had angered the Hidden so no-one would question who Nimue’s father was,” Pym shoots back. Lenore looks surprised at her boldness and Pym wonders why she is sounding so much like Guinevere, “and now Squirrel and I are the only Sky Folk left who can give the Hidden offerings and keep them alive. That won’t happen if you don’t help me.”

“You’re foolish to speak to the Hidden in such a way—“  
  
“I don’t have a choice!”

Lenore smirks.

“You always have a choice,” she says, “you chose to stand by Nimue. You chose to stay on these shores. You chose to come back here. You are the sum of your choices.”

“Then help me.”

“We already have,” she says and her voice echoes, “Now you need to listen to us. In the temple. Neither of you has much time.”

Pym nods, not liking it but getting the sense that shouting at them is going to be wasting more time. Lenore touches her fingers to the beads around Pym’s wrist and she watches them flicker with golden-green light. Lenore takes another step back, onto the water. Pym fights the urge to scream in frustration. She needs answers, not more riddles. She watches as Lenore begins to make her way across to join the others on the Isle.

Hands grasp her shoulders and spin her around. Her breath stops as she stares up into the skull that she knows sometimes makes Morgana’s face. Especially when she’s about to tell someone they are about to die. Her fingers dig into Pym’s shoulders.

“It’s the third storeroom,” she says, her voice echoing oddly. As if she’s speaking in two places at once, “the bottles have been destroyed but it’s on the ground. You know how to find it.”

“But the bottle—“ Pym starts.

“Not you,” Morgana says, “him.”

Pym knows what she’s saying. Who she’s talking about. She looks over at the Isle and wonders how it seems like it’s closer. As if it’s waiting for her. She thinks she might be able to see her mother there embracing her father, both turning to look at her. She sees others she recognizes and some she doesn’t. Many she doesn’t. All the Fey who have been killed over the Paladin’s war. Her eyes look across so many faces until she finds one she wasn’t even sure she was looking for. One she doesn’t know and yet knows very well. If only because of the familiar markings underneath her eyes.

“Not yet!” Morgana echoes, spinning her around, “Go!”

She shoves Pym so hard that she falls. Or maybe she fell before and she doesn’t remember. But when she opens her eyes, Lancelot is hunched over Squirrel. Morgana was right, there is no time. He’s breathing but she can see the blue tinge around his lips. Lancelot’s cut the brace off him in an effort to help him breathe and it doesn’t seem to be working. She’s avoided going into the temple or been forbidden for most of her life but now for the second time, she scrambles to her feet.

“Come on, we have to go to the temple. I need your help. Bring him,” she says.

Lancelot whips towards her, truly stunned and Pym doesn’t have time to think about why he’s looking at her like that.

“Lancelot, come on!” She says.

Lancelot grabs Squirrel and together they scramble back into the temple.


	98. Spark: Part 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So again a trigger warning for illness, death etc. Also specifically in this chapter someone makes someone else vomit to save their lives. It's a vague description but heads up on that.

He lays Squirrel down on the altar and follows Pym.

She leads him into the store room and refocuses just on the task. He can do the task, pushing all emotion to the side. It’s not something he has to do as often, but it’s an ingrained skill. Something that’s almost instinctive. He recognizes the Paladin’s handiwork here, everything is smashed or destroyed. Not even a few precious bottles remain. He looks as she drops down and sifts through the shards of the jars, looking at strange symbols he doesn’t recognize. Her hand hesitates over a piece of glass and then grabs another.

“This,” she says, “I need you to get everything that smells like this,” she scrambles to her feet, “I’m going to check on Squirrel.”

He grabs a gourd and breathes in. There’s something Fey clinging to the glass. Something that makes it easier to pick out the mix where it’s heaped among others. He’s able to scoop several handfuls into the bowl. He could take more but he can tell it’s been mixed more with some other smashed jar. He doesn’t know what the other things are but he’s not going to risk it. He hurries back to see Pym has Squirrel propped up and the rasping sound the boy makes is gut wrenching.

“We have to boil it,” she says.

She doesn’t lower Squirrel down as he races back for water and returns, setting the stuff to boil. The smell that plumes up is revolting, but he lets Pym’s belief carry him through with the task. Even though, given what he’s just seen on the hilltop he’s not sure what to believe about what the Hidden want. Pym motions him over and he props Squirrel up as she stirs it. She returns with the potion and hands it to him.

“He has to drink it,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says, “there’s no time.”

Lancelot looks over at the boy and has seen enough death to know that she’s right. He tilts Squirrel’s head and pours the potion directly down his throat, not sure he has it in him to swallow. He uses two fingers to massage his throat, making sure that as much of it goes down as possible. Nothing happens instantly, but Squirrel keeps breathing. At the moment, that’s the only thing that matters. Pym stares at Squirrel.

“You as well,” he says.

“Oh, right,” Pym agrees, spooning out the mixture. She pinches her nose and tips it down her throat, clapping her hand over her mouth to keep from being sick, “that’s horrible.”

“Do you feel anything?”

She shakes her head and Lancelot has to fight the urge to scream. Why doesn’t it work quicker? Did the Hidden appearing so many times slow them down? Pym presses her hands to the altar and Lancelot keeps one arm around Squirrel and uses the other to steady her. The panic starts again, the same panic that gripped him when she collapsed and he heard Squirrel wheeze. He knew that keeping Squirrel alive was more important, but diving for him meant leaving Pym in the green sparks. And that is something that felt as though he was leaving something vital behind. Getting the boy out of the brace bought them more time but seeing Pym laying there was not something he was prepared to face.

“I’m alright,” she gets out, gripping his wrist.

She doubles over and vomits black onto the stones. Horror would flood through him, if he didn’t smell that the potion had changed. Like it’s pulling the sickness out of her body. When she’s done being sick for the second time today, she stays doubled over sucking in air. But when she looks up at him, there’s something hopeful in her eyes. He presses his hand to her forehead. She still has a fever, but her scent smells more like her.

“I think it worked,” she says.

Her eyes immediately go to Squirrel, nothing’s come up from him. She gets more of the potion and together they tip it down his throat. It’s progressed farther in him, maybe more of it will help. But though it slides down his throat, his face remains slack. The blue still tints his lips and his breathing is anything but steady. The notion that they are too late makes it difficult to breathe. Pym looks at him. Instead of his own desperation she looks determined and almost angry.

“Hold him steady,” she says, “I’m going to make him be sick.”

“Wait a moment,” he says, “let it work.”

She nods as he shifts his grip on Squirrel. He’s seen enough poisons work to know that choking on your own vomit is not a pleasant way to die and very much a real threat in this case. Then he nods at Pym. She carefully tilts Squirrel’s head and sticks her fingers down his throat. Lancelot works in tandem as she pulls them away and Squirrel is promptly sick all over the ground. Any other time the sight of the black that spills from him would be horrifying, but there’s relief instead. Especially when Squirrel coughs and opens his eyes.

“Yuck,” he mumbles. He looks up at Pym, “why are your Fingers out?”

“I’m worried about you,” she says, “do you know where we are?”

Squirrel looks around.

“We’re in the temple,” he says and then looks at the puddle of black, “it’s a good thing everyone’s dead or we’d be in a lot of trouble.”

It’s the most lucid he’s sounded in days and when Pym laughs in relief, Lancelot is glad he’s sitting down. Squirrel looks over at him, seemingly surprised that he’s there and then leans against his shoulder. Like he knows that he’s safe. He can feel the heat coming off of Squirrel’s skin. He knows that neither of them are truly safe from this, but they have been helped. They are not as close to death as they were. Squirrel looks around at the temple as Lancelot holds him steady, seemingly surprised that they’ve gotten here.

“Can we go back home?” Squirrel asks Pym and Lancelot feels his heart leap into his throat.

“We are home,” he says.

“I don’t live in a temple,” Squirrel shoots back, which only mildly helps Lancelot’s pounding heart, “I want to go back to my real house.”

He looks up at Pym who swallows tightly. She doesn’t seem to know what to say and Lancelot cannot blame her for that. Squirrel looks between them. Lancelot wants to keep him as still as possible, incase whatever just occurred didn’t work. But he can feel Squirrel already trying to move. Will it be easier to take advantage of this and keep him still in his home? He meets Pym’s eyes and she looks at him helplessly. She’s not sure either.

“I know the way,” she says.

“I do too, it’s my home,” Squirrel protests.

“You are going to fall asleep on our way there,” Lancelot says.

“Am not.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, wondering briefly why he was so desperate for Squirrel talking back. Squirrel grumbles under his breath and Lancelot looks at Pym.

“It’s not far,” she says quietly.

“Let’s go,” Squirrel says, wiggling forward and moving to get off the table.

Lancelot’s hand streaks out as Pym dives forward. Between the pair of them they’re able to narrowly keep Squirrel from adding a broken nose to the list of ailments. Lancelot guides the boy back to the table. At least Squirrel enthusiastically going face first into something is a familiar trait, even if it’s also worrying given everything they’ve done to train his balance. It’s the sickness. Lancelot knows his recovery is going to be a long one, but they can manage that. As long as he is around to recover, that is the only thing that matters.

“Stay here,” Lancelot says and brings Pym off to the side, ignoring Squirrel’s huff of indignation.

She presses her fingers to her lips, like she might still be sick and he takes her hand in his. Small starburst scars dot the skin below her fingertips. It must have happened the first time that the Fire and the Hidden took her. She doesn’t seem surprised or bothered at the sight of him but his stomach knots at the realization that she’s once again been burned because of him.

“Do they hurt?” He asks.

“I think I’m so relieved you could slap me and it wouldn’t hurt.”

He understands that but it doesn’t make him feel better. Not only in that she’s been burned, but this entire time she’s been keeping them focused on Squirrel. Pushing her own fear aside. Now she looks almost weak with some combination of fever and relief and he wonders if he did enough to keep her going. If her fears were listened to, regardless of her difficulty in saying them. They’re here now and there’s nothing to be done, but he realizes the journey was harder on her than he thought.

“Should we take him from the temple,” he asks.

“I don’t think it matters if we’re here or not,” she’s says, “it might be easier to get him to lay still there.”

“I was thinking the same,” he says, “is it far?”

“No,” she says, “there’s a smoother path we can take on the horses.”  
  
“Can we avoid the village?”

She nods.

“Is the path on the outskirts?”

“Yes?” She says.

He loathes asking any discomfort of her but he knows that if this path is on the outskirts of the village, there is a chance that they will find something that Squirrel cannot see.

“I need the cloak back to hide Squirrel’s eyes,” he says. She goes for the fastening and stops, “Fey men usually defend their homes.”

Realization flares in her eyes and she slides her arms through the straps and hands it to him. He wishes that he could reassure her he didn’t do it, but the truth is he doesn’t know. Even if he sees the face, he can’t be sure. He’s killed many Fey outside their homes. He can say he didn’t the ones on the crucifixes only because that is the Priests work. And that was something he could never become. Pym tries to smile at him but it’s a hard thing. He can’t blame her for that.

“Let’s go,” he says and comes back. Squirrel is unsteady. Some combination of that and something else keeps him sitting there, looking around but also seeming bored with the sacred place. As only a child can be, “we’re going to your home.”

“Great,” Squirrel says and goes to jump off again. Lancelot catches him this time, though his landing is better, “I can walk.”

“We’re riding.”

“I can ride then.”

“We’re riding together,” Lancelot says.

“What about Pym?”

“I’m fine,” Pym says, “come on. You need to rest.”

Squirrel opens his mouth and Lancelot lays a hand on his shoulder, giving him a warning look. Pym also needs to rest and the boy’s sass is not going to help that. Squirrel looks slightly embarrassed and nods, looking down at his feet. He lets Lancelot help him over to Goliath. Lancelot goes over to Pym and cups his hands.

“I’ll be able to get up again shortly,” she says.

“I don’t mind,” he says.

She gives him a long, quiet look before nodding and putting her foot in his hands. She braces against his shoulder and swings herself into the saddle. He turns quickly and steadies her as she sways slightly. She, too, has a long recovery ahead of her. But if this has worked then she’ll be able to recover. Lancelot waits for her to open her eyes and nod at him before he walks back over to Squirrel and swings himself up behind the boy. He’s careful to make sure the cloak blocks out his periphery vision.

“You should be riding with her,” Squirrel says.

“Quiet,” Lancelot orders.

Pym leads them down a path. Lancelot pushes any emotion to the side and opens his nose. He keeps Goliath firmly behind the horse. As they ride, he hears Pym inhale sharply but she doesn’t stop. He blocks the bodies out but they don’t smell like Squirrel. Or like any of them. He does start to smell Squirrel and his kin as they approach a house. Pym abruptly stops the horse.

“I’m going to go look,” she says.

“No,” Lancelot replies and she turns, looking at him. Even as he says that she lowers herself down and shoves the reins at him, “Pym—“

“Stay here with Squirrel,” she says, “I’ll be fine.”

Before he can say anything she moves forward. Squirrel lets out a low whistle that ends in a hacking cough. Lancelot steadies him again and pulls him back, letting the warmth and the cloak keep him safe and tucked away. He tracks Pym by scent. After a moment, a fresh scent joins it. One that he recognizes. One that could have belonged to Squirrel if they had waited much longer. He closes his eyes and tunes into the scent and sound. He should have gone with her. He listens to her drag something heavy before he smells her coming back. He opens her eyes to see her flushed and sweaty despite the cold but doing her best to hide it.

“All clear,” she lies, “lets go.”

She leads the horse forward and he follows on Goliath, watching her back like a hawk. He wants to take his cloak off and give it back to her but it’s impossible without raising Squirrel’s suspicions. The house is charred and a good chunk of the roof is missing. He’s careful to angle Goliath from the deep tracks in the snow that are tinged red. Pym looks over and hurries there, quickly sweeping the snow aside. Their eyes meet and she nods.

“We’re home,” he says.

Squirrel pops his head out, looking relieved to see something of his house still standing. Lancelot dismounts and helps Squirrel down. Squirrel hurries ahead and Lancelot quickly goes over to Pym. He hesitates only slightly before touching her shoulder. She immediately steps closer to him and something tight unravels in his chest that she’ll let him touch her at all. He guides her into the house.

The elements have affected a portion of it, but a lot of it still stands tall. The beds pushed to the side are dry. Everything look preserved. Shockingly well. It’s a testament to Squirrel’s father’s fighting skills. He was a lot of trouble if they didn’t destroy it like the other houses.

“Can you light the fire?” Squirrel asks him and Lancelot nods, walking over to the hearth and putting fire there. Even with the hole in the roof it helps warm the place.

While that happens he tacks up the tent, helping to patch the hole in the roof and give the illusion that nothing has happened here. That Squirrel’s father isn’t laying outside, possibly dead from his blade. He makes sure they are both safe and by the Fire before he walks out, not even bothering to give an excuse. He ignores the horses and comes around to the back where Pym has dragged the body.

He’s a big man, though is blades have been taken there’s still the holders and an empty quiver. He died fighting. That doesn’t surprise Lancelot somehow. Though the body is well into it’s decomposition, he examines the marks. They are short and square, deeper at one end than the other. The one that split his skull and probably killed him shows the marks of a stuck hatchet.

Lancelot knows he didn’t use a hatchet when he brought them into the village.

Relief drops him to his knees even though he has no right to feel such things. He would be alive if not for Lancelot leading the Paladins here. He still had such a hand in this. This and every death that has happened. But it wasn’t his hand that took Squirrel’s family from him. He nearly feels weak with the relief of it. There’s the sound of someone coming but he recognizes Pym’s scent as she nearly careens into him.

“Are you alright?” She questions, turning his face atowards her. She cringes from the sight of the body, “did—“

“No,” he cuts in, “I hate using a hatchet,” he swallows back the urge to be sick.

Pym looks weak with relief herself. He probably killed other family members of theirs, he isn’t innocent in this. But somehow his blade did not take the people that they loved most. There’s no logic to it, it’s just foolish luck. Luck or something else. Something he doesn’t dare hope to believe in. Pym grips his arm.

“We have to go back before Squirrel comes looking for us,” she says, “he needs to rest, we can take care of his body later.”

Lancelot nods and gets to his feet. There’s no point in changing any of this but he still moves forward, putting the man’s arms over his breast. Pym smiles gently at the gesture, looking over her shoulder to make sure Squirrel has stayed inside. Lancelot knows it’s chancing their luck and they need it for other things.

So he stands up and follows her back into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're alive and I know that this is not how things work in the illness department but I did try to put a Fey spin on it. We're almost (but not quite) at the point where I don't have to put the illness warning. Until then the recap will be up on my Tumblr page.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kudos, commented and sent me Tumblr messages, I am blown away by so many people being so nice about the story. Onwards!


	99. Spark: Part 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illness warning because there are fevers involved, recap will be up soon.

She’s dreamed of home so many times, it’s strange to open her eyes in a familiar place.

It’s not her home, but it’s more familiar than any place she’s woken up lately. She could almost pretend that it is. She’s also spent enough time in Squirrel’s house for it to have it’s own familiarity. The green Fire reminds her that she’s not home. She realizes that she didn’t even remember falling asleep, but she’s asleep in front of the Fire in her bedroll. She sits up and presses her hand to her forehead, wishing the throbbing would stop. She doesn’t fully remember getting here.

“You’re still feverish,” Lancelot says, appearing besides her. He hands her a waterskin and she drinks greedily, “do you feel nauseous?”

“No,” she realizes, but when she wipes her hand over her forehead she realizes she is sweaty and chilly at the same time. But that at least feels familiar, if not awful, “where’s Squirrel?”

“In his bed,” Lancelot says, “his fever is worse,” she moves and he steadies her, “slowly.”

“Have you healed?” She asks as he helps her up. He says nothing. Of course he hasn’t, “go do that, I’ll stay with Squirrel,” he hesitates, “Lancelot, we need you well.”

He nods finally and guides her over to the bed. She sits there and tries to look like she has everything together, if only to get him out the door quicker. He needs to heal. They need his strength, even more than they already do. He put Squirrel on his bedroll in his bed. Pym remembers Squirrel’s mother making the quilt he lays under. It’s incredible that the quilt is mostly whole.

Squirrel is pale and flushed and shivering with the fever. She imagines that his symptoms are going to be worse. His illness progressed worse. She never saw anyone go into the temple or be healed and instantly be well. They can aide the body, but the body needs to do it’s part. Squirrel is so strong, she has to remind herself of that again. Though she knows it deep in her bones. He’s strong and he will be alright. His spirit is so much bigger than the body that houses it. Lancelot has scooped snow into a pail and let it melt, giving them cold water to soak fabric in and put on the boy’s forehead. When Pym changes the cloth, he stirs slightly but not as much as she would hope for how cold the water is.

Outside she hears a crack as Lancelot connects to a tree and then a soft thump. It’s winter. She supposes that it makes sense snow would be more of an issue. However when he comes back inside, he’s not so much covered in water as he sopping wet. Because of course the Fey Fire would melt snow. He meets her gaze and she fights back a smile as how disgruntled he looks. It’s probably the first time he’s let himself feel that. He looks at Squirrel before heading over to the Fire and hanging up his cloak. She gets to her feet and goes over to the Fire where he’s sitting.

  
“Squirrel’s alright,” she says, “his fever’s high.”

“You both have fevers,” he says.

“His is higher,” she says.

He says nothing, it’s a simple fact but it doesn’t change the look on his face. He’s worried about both of them. Which she’s been aware of, but now that she’s not as foggy she can see just how worried. She wishes she didn’t understand it quite so well after learning he had been taken. That powerless feeling when you couldn’t do anything except try to get help, even though all you want to do is singlehandedly save someone. She knows that feeling. It’s not one she would wish on another person.

She thinks that even if they had come here healthy this trip wouldn’t be easy.

It was jarring to see the remnants of destruction in the village and on the island. But that destruction was old, it let her lie to herself. This is fresh. It’s fresh and the wound is deeper. Maybe that makes her awful but seeing it in her village, knowing the skeletons and the corpses, it makes it worse. The guilt and anguish on him don’t bring back the dead, they don’t change what his hand has done. She knows that she’s made her peace with his deeds, accepted that she wants to be around him and be his friend. Even with what he’s done.

It’s confusing to have it be hard to be around him in this place and also to be so grateful that he’s there.

He looks anguished but also his eyes keep darting around, like he’s looking for something. There’s no-one in here, he would smell them if there was anyone. She follows his gaze but it doesn’t settle on anything in particular, it drags over everything before going back to Squirrel. Something Lancelot said echoes in her head and she looks at her hands before speaking to him.

“Have you ever been inside a Fey home?” She asks tentatively. He looks at her in surprise, “you keep looking around.”

“I’ve been inside,” he says, “but only to drag people out.”

He looks over at her and Pym doesn’t know what he expects to see. She has no issue conjuring the image of him standing in a home like this, sniffing out someone who thought they were safe. Who had no idea their fear made their scent sharper. She can even easily imagine the fear they must have felt when the impassive, unstoppable weeping monk dragged them from those places and slaughtered them. She knows because she’s felt that fear or something very close to it, even though the first times when she was afraid of him and he appeared suddenly, she knew he wouldn’t kill her. The look he has is like the look he wore in the temple when she asked if he killed Lenore.

“You know I only asked if you killed Lenore because we needed help from the Hidden, right?” She says tentatively, “if you had or hadn’t—it wouldn’t have changed how I feel about you.”

“We’re in your village, a village I burned down,” he says, “how can that not change things between us?”

“Because I know what you did here,” Pym says, “I’ve known since before I knew you,” she adds, not sure how to explain this in a way he’ll understand, “it’s always been a part of you—I’ve never known you as someone other than the one who did this,” he nods, looking down, “and I still decided to be your friend. I still want to be your friend. That hasn’t changed.”

He looks like he doesn’t believe her and Pym can’t blame him. She can scarcely believe it herself sometimes, though after these months she can honesty say he knows her better than most people. They raced here without a second thought, it never occurred to her that in addition to being afraid of losing them to a sickness he would also be scared of losing them to his past. That kind of emotional pain would be crippling to anyone but to someone like Lancelot, she can’t even imagine how it must have felt.

“You don’t believe me,” she says.

“I find it hard to believe,” he corrects.

“I can tell, you sound raspy,” she adds. He raises an eyebrow, “your voice gets raspy when you get upset sometimes,” she says, “you sound more like when we first met,” he seems surprised and she finds it hard not to smile, “did you not know?” He shakes his head, “well you do sometimes. Not often but lately—“

“Given the circumstances,” he points out.

“I know,” she says, looking down, “really I’m not sorry for going to Squirrel but I am sorry for worrying you. I was upset when you sacrificed yourself for everyone, even though I know why you did it.”

He’s quiet for a moment and Pym doesn’t know what’s going through his head. He clears his throat before speaking and she can’t fight the smile at him trying to hide his tell. She turns her head and tries to clamp down on it though as he holds his hand out.

“Let me see your hands.”

She sighs and puts them in his. They hurt but it’s not unbearable, or maybe the pain is just not something she’s thinking about between her fever and Squirrel still being sick and a thousand other things that are in her head. It’s more comparable to being splashed by cooking oil than anything else. It strikes her as odd that she’s been touched by all these magical fires, and the thing that her mind still goes to is cooking. Lancelot runs his thumbs over the back of her hands where her marks are and the Fire catches the faint marks that dot his hands.

“What?” She prods gently.

“I shouldn’t have lit the pyre,” he says. When he goes to drop her hands she grips his.

“Lancelot, it’s really alright. Getting them laid to rest was more important. I’m not the first Summoner to get burned by the sparks when the Hidden chose me.” 

He doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer but he doesn’t move to pull his hands away either.

“So you’ve accepted your role?” He asks.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” she says, “I mean, neither of us are happy about it,” he opens his mouth, “don’t insult them until we’re better or we’ve left this place,” she’s says quickly, “we’re lucky they helped at all and might help in the future.”

She can’t blame him for looking less than thrilled, she isn’t very pleased herself. It’s still strange and terrifying. She still thinks they would all be better off with someone who has the natural connection she’s never truly embraced. But like she told Arthur when he first came looking for a healer for Lancelot, she’s better than nothing. If only just a little.

“I was going to say that they are lucky to have you,” Lancelot says.

Despite having a fever, she still feels herself blush at the compliment. The sound of Squirrel whimpering kills the soft feeling and they both hurry over to where he’s laying. Maybe it’s their presence, maybe it’s being in his own bed, but he stills again faster than Pym’s seen him recover from a nightmare. Something relaxes when he stills back into a fevered sleep, though she knows that’s not a good thing.

Pym tells herself this is the hardest part, the waiting to see if this worked or not. Before they had the hope that something could help. Now it’s a question of if that help was enough. If Squirrel can fight it off. His body is that of a child. There is only so much it can stand. Lancelot changes the cloth on his brow and clenches his fist. The helplessness doesn’t suit him.

“What did the Paladins do for the sick?” She asks.

“Pray,” he says.

Pym expected as much. They both know Lancelot hasn’t been able to since he was taken. She sees glimpses of his prayer beads but they aren’t ever in his hands. Not like she’s seen him hold them before. Praying has always been an intensely private thing for him and she wishes that there was more room. Or that it wasn’t snowing so she would have somewhere to give him what he needs.

“Maybe you should try that,”. She says.

He looks surprised at the suggestion.

“The Hidden—“

“The Hidden are going to have to learn to accept some compromises,” she says, “and I think that if they appeared with your Fey Fire, they know your faith,” he clenches his jaw, “you did horrible things here in the name of your religion, but everything you’ve told me makes it sound like forgiveness and atonement is a big part of it. You came back here when you didn’t have to, you helped some find peace,” she shrugs, “I think that’s more in line with what you believe than what you did before.”

He seems stunned by her words. Pym doubts she’s the person to speak on his faith but she knows how it can get when you think one thing and another is actually the case. Things are not as different between their beliefs as the Church tells them. But then again the Hidden and the Church have more in common than either probably wants to consider. She sees Lancelot’s fingers soften and uncurl, moving to the beads hidden on him. Pym smiles faintly. She doesn’t know if he can pray, but she knows it can’t hurt to try. His actions when he had faith saved Squirrel, maybe they can help now. She pushes herself up and his hand catches hers. She looks at him.

“I was just going to give you some privacy,” she says.

“Stay?” He phrases it as a question and she hesitates only a moment before nodding and sitting back down.

Lancelot leaves her hand in her lap and takes the beads, lowering his head. Pym closes her eyes to give him the moment.

Then he starts to pray.

It turns out Lancelot has another tone she’s not heard before. She’s never heard him pray, not even when he did it aloud to control his Fire. It’s almost musical, but he isn’t signing. She doesn’t know the language he uses but that doesn’t seem to matter as he speaks, moving the beads between his fingers. When Bedivere instructed her in how they were used, the way he prayed was similar. But it’s not like this. Or maybe she just likes listening to Lancelot’s voice more. She feels a shiver work up her spine and clenches her fingers in her lap to avoid moving. She almost doesn’t want to breathe in case it distracts him. She looks at his face and he looks more at peace than most places she’s seen him, like this is somewhere he belongs. Somewhere he takes comfort in.

He looks at her and Squirrel that way too, sometimes.

She likes when he does it.

The realization hits her that she likes when he looks at her like that, she likes it when he touches her hand. She likes being around him. Which she knew already, but standing in the ruins she realizes that it goes almost beyond a want. It’s like a need. Pym has always been careful about needing people. She’s spent her life with Nimue and with people who so many need. She doesn’t want to be anyone’s burden. With Lancelot, needing him doesn’t feel that way. Because she has no doubt he needs her just as badly. It feels like a weight has been lifted and also is settling over her, all at the same time. It feels balancing. It’s a weight she doesn’t mind even if she’s not sure what it means.

“Lancelot?” She looks over to see Squirrel looking up at them.

He’s just been asleep but the fact that he looks marginally better, even in the green light, makes her glad she’s sitting down. Squirrel looks at her as well.

“You don’t have to cry, I was just sleeping,” he mumbles.

She realizes her eyes have tears in them, though she can’t remember when they started. She feels better than she has in a while—she feels like she did with him at the market. Like the things that are sad can be sweet as well, as long as he’s there. As long as he’s there things will be okay, even if they aren’t alright. After Lancelot lays a new cloth on Squirrel’s forehead, which he grumbles about, she reaches for his hand.

“Go back to sleep,” Lancelot says

For once, Squirrel doesn’t question him and closes his eyes, drifting off knowing he’s safe and home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Thank you to those who commented/kudosed/messaged me, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. I would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter and story in general. Onwards!


	100. Spark: Part 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No illness warnings for this chapter! You can find the final recap [HERE](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/post/635637076896972800/firebird-recap-this-is-a-recap-of-the-last-few) (Previous recaps are here at: [PART 1](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/post/634881891748741120/firebird-recap-if-youve-chosen-to-do-this) and [PART 2](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/post/635180110805336064/a-long-overdue-recap-of-the-past-few-chapters-of).

Squirrel finds the body in the morning.

Lancelot doesn’t even realize he’s well enough to leave the bed. He barely is. But neither of them thought he would manage to get out without them realizing. A part of him is glad that Squirrel is on his way to recovering. The rest of him wishes that it would have taken a bit longer. He can remember the sound of his parent’s screaming, but not their remains. Seeing a parent like that, especially one that didn’t try to kill you, is something no-one should have to witness. But by the time he finds Squirrel it’s too late. He’s found his body and is staring at it in shock.

“Squirrel—Percival!” Lancelot spins the boy around, turning his back to the body, “focus on me.”

Squirrel stares at him, his eyes owl like. It’s unspeakably cruel that he saw that after everything. Squirrel looks past him and Lancelot smells Pym moments before she arrives. It doesn’t take much to see what’s happened and Squirrel manages to blink, looking between the two of them. Pym rushes over as his eyes fill up and he pushes past, running to her and burning his face in her stomach. Pym looks her arms around him as Squirrel cries. Her eyes find his and she gives him a sympathetic look he has to turn from. It wasn’t his hand that cut him down, but he had a hand in this all the same. He neither needs nor wants sympathy. He deserves so much worse.

For the first time in weeks, that bone deep itch goes across his old scars.

Lancelot clamps down on it, recognizing it for what it is. It’s punishment and only for himself. God does not care about the blood or the tearing of his flesh. His soul is already forfeit so that doesn’t matter either. Prayer and flogging have always gone hand in hand. Finding his faith, even in a small way, brings up the physical need. It’s like holding the beads and holding the flog are the same muscle, though he knows that isn’t true. He has to remind himself and he will have to continue to remind himself of that for as long as it takes.

“No!” He turns at the angry cry from Squirrel. He walks back over. The boy is upset but shouting at Pym is not alright, not when he is the person responsible for his father not being here, “I don’t want to burn him, he didn’t want to be burned. He wanted to be part of the woods.”

Pym falters for a moment before nodding.

“We can bury him,” she promises. Lancelot keeps his mouth closed until Squirrel looks at him.

“Can you dig? I can help.”

He nods and Squirrel looks around. Lancelot wants to tell him not to but he finds a shovel easily. The boy goes for it and Lancelot beats him to it, picking up the tool. He understands Squirrel wants to help but digging a grave for a body that size isn’t going to be easy. He needs to recover. This place has seen enough death. Pym walks with them as Squirrel leads them to a pair of younger trees nearby. He points to the ground between them.

“There,” he says.

Lancelot nods as Pym touches Squirrel’s shoulder.

“Let’s go get the quilt, you can help me sew him into it.”

Squirrel nods and follows her as Lancelot pushes the shovel into the earth. The ground is half frozen and it rests him every step of the way. Lancelot relishes in it. His back still itches but the pull of his muscles is almost enough to distract him. His throat tightens and he pulls off his shirt, casting it aside. But it doesn’t help quite as much as he thought it would with the knot in his throat. The cold does. It feels nice, even though the plume of his breath makes it seem like it shouldn’t.

He falls into a rhythm as he digs and the earth begins to change. Though he’s careful not to touch the roots, the dirt that lands on his skin cases it to change all the same. He’s left a gaping, horrible wound in this land. But the Green doesn’t seem to care as his skin changes to mimic the dirt and the leaves and bits of everything that mix together. The ground becomes softer as he digs and his skin molts green where it comes in to contact. He should put his layers back on, but instead he lets it happen. There’s no wound for it to heal but he doesn’t feel afraid as he does it.

It’s strange to think how afraid he was when he rode in.

Not afraid in any way that compares to the terror the Fey felt when he arrived to burn their homes down. That fear doesn’t compare. Their fear was justified. His fear was cowardice. He was a coward in so many ways. Now, whether he deserves it or not, he doesn’t feel afraid as he digs the grave. He feels his back and shoulders pull as the hole becomes deeper and the earth rockier. In a bit more, water comes in. Not a lot, but a bit. Enough for him to know he’s dug enough. He puts the shovel up and uses it to brace his hands so he can push himself up.

Pym and Squirrel have put the body on a quilt. There are branches on it as well, their foliage vaguely resembling Squirrel’s Fingers when they come out. There are other things too. A child’s toy, a hair ribbon, a strand of beads and a blade. They both look up at him as he comes over, biting back the urge to ask why they would move the body instead of waiting for him. He knows the answer. He watches as Squirrel makes sure he’s seen the body before taking the other side. He and Pym fold the quilt over the body. Lancelot can see the care that’s gone into it, though he doesn’t understand what the stitches mean.

Pym and Squirrel both have needles and thread. The stitches aren’t pretty but Lancelot imagines they aren’t supposed to be. Squirrel sniffles several times as they close the quilt around the body, but he keeps sewing. When they reach his father’s face, Pym pauses and let’s Squirrel look before he carefully sews it up. By that point he’s tearful again and his hands are shaking, but he knots the threads all the same before handing the needle to Pym. She takes them both and slips them into the fabric as well.

“The grave is ready, can I bring him there?” Lancelot asks.

Squirrel nods his permission and Lancelot takes the ends. He doesn’t risk lifting the body. Squirrel doesn’t need to see him flopping around and he doesn’t want to risk anything falling out or him starting to bleed. He drags the quilt and it’s contents as carefully as he can over to the hole. Squirrel and Pym follow. Lancelot puts the body on the side of the grave and climbs in. Without a word, Pym comes forward and helps guide the body into it’s final resting place. She cleverly grabs his discarded shirt and puts it on the ground so he can push himself up without risking the Fire. He pulls the garment on and turns to move away to give Squirrel privacy.

  
“Where are you going?”Squirrel asks.

“He’s giving you a moment to say goodbye,” Pym says, “Lancelot!”

He turns at the call of his name. Pym nods at Squirrel and he looks to see him looking at him intently. He doesn’t need to wonder at the request and though each step hurts, he returns to where they are standing. Squirrel looks down at the body laying there quietly.

“Thank you for digging it,” he says. Lancelot nods.

“What was his name?”

“Gullayad,” Squirrel says, “he taught Gawain how to hunt.”

The connection to Gawain catches him off guard. He’s connected to the man that inhabited this body in more ways than either of them ever would have thought. Certainly than either of them could have known when their paths first crossed before his death. If the standing house hadn’t told him that Gullayad was a brave and stubborn fighter, then knowing he taught Squirrel and Gawain would have. He doesn’t know if there is anything that he can say, but he’s unable to just leave the silence punctured by Squirrel’s sniffs.

“He fought bravely,” he says. Squirrel looks up at him, “the Paladins don’t leave houses this whole unless someone has made it too much trouble,” he looks back at the house, which looks whole from this angle, “he fought well,” he says to Squirrel.

“He taught me too,” Squirrel says quietly.

Lancelot nods as Squirrel steps closer to him. He sees Pym exhale in relief and feels it echo in him, thought it also has the sickening feeling of guilt. But he doubts that will ever leave. But he is not a coward like before, he doesn’t run from it. Doesn’t try to push it away. He faces it, he bears the burden of it. He settles a hand on his shoulder as they look at the body laying in the grave silently.

“Born in the dawn,” Squirrel says.

“To pass in the twilight,”he and Pym echo.

“I can’t fill it in,” Squirrel says.

“No,” Lancelot agrees, “but you can start it.”

Squirrel nods and takes the shovel, scooping a little dirt over the body. He keeps going until there’s a light dusting. It’s not many scoops, but he’s still recovering and the effort leaves him slightly out of breath. Lancelot takes the shovel from him as Squirrel looks up at him.

“You did well,” he says, “I’ll finish.”

Squirrel nods. Pym comes forward and takes him back in the house as Lancelot begins to cover the body with dirt. The tightness returns to his throat and he strips his shirt off again, hoping that it will help. Again, it does not. But the discomfort isn’t something that stops him as he continues to add dirt to the grave. The feel of his muscles burning as he fills it doesn’t help like it usually does. The burning remains in his throat. Even when he wipes the dirt from his skin, which should stop it. There’s nothing burning and yet everything feels as though it is. His throat, his eyes, his lungs.

He keeps filling the grave.

The man who taught Squirrel and Gawain and countless other such bravery deserves better than the one responsible for his death. His family’s death. Just as Squirrel deserves better as a teacher than the one who helped take so much. If not for him, he could still have his father. Still be learning from him. The man died like Gawain, he died bravely in the face of a foe that Lancelot knows he succumbed to. These men fought nobly for their kind. They weren’t like the Ash Folk whose attempts at killing him filled his heart with hatred.

They did deserve the revenge he’s spent a lifetime trying to exact on the dead.

That’s what this has been, he’s been a child fighting shadows with his bare hands when the solution was to light a candle. He’s been a fool a thousand times over and men like Gullayad and boys like Squirrel have paid the price. He doesn’t understand how it is he’s still here, how he is to carry this burden. It feels as though his lungs are being twisted and wrung out. Perhaps he didn’t heal properly. The sounds that come from his lips aren’t breaths, they are the noises Squirrel was making when he nearly died. It’s like being underwater, that’s certainly how his eyes feel. Like they did when the Church decided he was nothing but a tool and a misshapen one at that. Something that needed to be melted. It feels like there’s something red hot sliding past the tightness in his throat. Some burning he doesn’t understand.

“Lancelot!”

He takes a step back, if he’s burning it must be something he doesn’t understand. Something that he doesn’t remember. Or didn’t have time to learn before the Ash Folk also deemed him a useless thing to be left to bleed out on the rocks. Like all the children. Or most of them. Some parents didn’t do that, they protected their children and were slaughtered. Like the ones that he’s slaughtered. His steps are unsteady, he knows he has to trust Pym is smart enough to run.

But when he tries to focus, she’s not gone.

She’s in front of him.

He shakes his head because it’s impossible to speak and she cups his cheeks in her hands, her thumbs touching his marks. Before he realizes what’s happening she’s against him, pulling him closer. Her arms wrap around his shoulders. He realizes that for some reason, he cannot smell her. His nose feels stuffed with something that makes it hard to smell. When he tries, there’s nothing and what comes on the exhale sounds more like a wounded animal than a man.

He doesn’t know how they wind up on the dirt next to the grave, or how he winds up pressed into her. No more than he knows how the heaving sobs start. But once they’ve begun, he cannot stop them. He cannot control them. Pym holds him close and it feels like the only thing that is keeping him grounded, even if he cannot smell her scent like he usually can. He can do nothing but weep. And Pym just holds him tightly, keeping him as close as she can.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, she never tries to stop him or if she does, it doesn’t work. Eventually the heaving sobs lessen, though it’s longer before they become anything controllable. His head aches and his nose is so stuffed, the situation is almost dangerous. He feels robbed of his senses. Even though he’s half on Pym’s lap and she’s curled over him, protecting him in a way that he can’t remember ever feeling. All of this is new. Maybe the crying and the guilt was inevitable, but not being alone wasn’t. Not like this. He feels unsteady and weak in a way that isn’t something he can heal from, even as she wipes the tears. It’s futile, they both know it. But she does it anyway.

“I’m sorry,” He croaks out, though the apology seems so insufficient it makes his head spin.

“I know,” she says, “you’re not alone, Lancelot. We’re here. We’re with you.”

He nods, knowing she’s right as he gathers himself up. She doesn’t let him get far, her palms cupping his cheeks as she wipes the tears again. Her thumbs are cool on his marks, not hot like her fever made her. He’s never been so grateful for the odd sensation. Even as he turns his face helplessly into her hand. His eyes are closed and his nose is stuffed, it’s a wildly unpleasant feeling. But he cannot bring himself to move from her.

Not until she gasps and her hands drop from his face to his shoulders.

He’s half blinded and his other senses are crippled, but he doesn’t need his senses to follow her gaze. He hasn’t cried, not like that. Not as an adult. But he’s pushed through worse. He stands up in one smooth motion, calling on his Fire as he pulls Pym against him. It’s impossible to know if they’re surrounded, but the closer she is the less risk of her being burned. His Fire wraps around his free hand and illuminates the area.

The man standing there doesn’t react.

He’s dressed in muted colors that would make it difficult to see him. They’re quilted and layered, making Lancelot think of his own clothing. He doesn’t wear a cloak but he is hooded and his face is wrapped, leaving only a narrow slit for his eyes to peer out of. If he’s afraid of the Fire, he doesn’t show it. He just stands there. As though he’s taking all of it in. Behind him Lancelot can hear Squirrel squawk indignantly and he realizes that they are surrounded.

“Let them go,” he says and his voice is unrecognizably hoarse.

“Or?” The figure challenges. He says nothing and there’s a derisive snort from behind the mask, “you never were good at killing.”

There’s something familiar about the voice, something he cannot place. Even though his mind struggles, something in him knows. It has to know. Even before the figure removes the hood and undoes the wrappings. Squirrel comes out from the house, escorted by others but Lancelot cannot take his eyes off the figure as the wrappings fall away.

The marks aren’t the same.

It catches him off guard. The man standing there has copper skin and marks that drip differently from his eyes. They don’t stand out the same way, but the shape is different. Different but it’s also familiar. His hair is shorn and Lancelot can see a scar that cuts across his temple and near his jaw, further twisting the marks on one side of his face. He knows his confusion must show on as some twisted humor shows in the Ash Fey’s eyes. He steps closer and Lancelot feels Pym cringe. Hie tightens his grip on her. The Ash Fey draws his blade.

“You’re still not good at it,” he remarks, raising his blade. Lancelot realizes that this might be how he dies, as the Ash Fey touches his hand and his Fire winks out. He sees the Fey’s fingertips are blackened, just as his are, “a life for a—“

Pym drops from his embrace and before he or the other Ash Fey fully understand what’s happening, she grabs the shovel and swings it into the other Ash Fey’s head. 

It connects with a solid sound and the Fey crumples into an unconscious heap at Lancelot’s feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 100 chapters to everyone still reading this monstrosity of a fic! This was one of the parts I was most excited to write where Lancelot has emotionally matured enough and is able to start to deal with his feelings of guilt and grief, which he has been very much unable to deal with so far. And Pym doing some baby fighting!
> 
> Thank you to the people who commented, kudosed, left messages on Tumblr etc. We are at 100 chapters in huge part because you guys are so responsive and really help me stay focused with your engagement. I would love to hear your thoughts or any feedback you have. I will see you in the next chapter!


	101. Spark: Part 18

In hindsight, it’s not the smartest thing she’s ever done.

She sees the sword and knows there’s a chance after what she’s just witnessed that Lancelot will not defend himself. So she just strikes. In the simplest way possible. She’s not expecting it to be quite so effective. Lancelot meets her eyes as she stands over the body with the shovel. He’s wearing gloves, no skin is showing so when he falls there’s no automatic healing. Lancelot pivots instantly towards the two with Squirrel but they jump back, holding up their hands in an unmistakable gesture of surrender. Lancelot motions Squirrel and he runs forward to them. The two Fey standing there are clearly surprised but don’t move to attack. Either they know what Lancelot is capable of or they aren’t here to harm them. Pym isn’t sure which.

“What are you doing kidnapping a child?” She asks.

“We weren’t kidnapping anyone,” one says, “we were just bringing him around,” he looks up, “we mean you no harm or you’d be dead.”

“I doubt that,” Pym says, “why did he have his sword out?”

“Let him heal and you can ask him yourself.”

They’re not stupid. She looks at Lancelot. He gets rid of his Fire and nods, moving to the unconscious Ash Folk. Pym realizes she’s probably hurt him badly with the shovel. She’s lucky he’s able to heal. Even if he hadn’t been Ash Folk she’s not sure she would have done things differently. Lancelot studies his face for a moment, moving the sword aside. He takes off one of the man’s gloves and pins him before pushing his hand into the dirt. The Healing happens quickly, he’s not hurt as badly as Pym thought. Or he’s good at doing this, like he was with the Fire. His features remain smooth, Pym thinks he’s asleep until she sees Lancelot’s face.

“Did you see what you needed to?” He opens his eyes and looks at him. Lancelot meets his gaze steadily. For a long moment they just stare at each other, “or are you here to kill me?”

“I was never here to kill you,” the other man says. Lancelot raises an eyebrow, “your wife didn’t let me finish,” he huffs, “I’m not going to kill you, can you let me up?”

Lancelot moves backwards but keeps the sword. The Ash Fey sits up and pulls his glove back on. He gives some kind of signal and Pym sees the other two have vanished. The new Ash Fey gets to his feet. He lacks the kind of grace that Tristain and Lancelot exhibit. Though his face is scarred, Pym imagines that lacks those other scars too. His eyes drag over to her and she feels Lancelot move closer.

“Why have you been watching us?” She asks.

“To understand what was going on,” he says, “none of us had seen you in the woods with the Paladins, then you appeared with the Raiders. We weren’t sure if it was a plan to bring them back to the Church until they tried to kill you again. We found the ruins of their ship, then we found you in the port.”

They’ve been watched for a while. It shouldn’t surprise her, though it’s still unsettling. The group of Fey that she thinks this one is a part of is rumored to be large in number. Their ability to evade makes sense if they have a member of the Ash Folk with them. Especially when the Paladins had Lancelot. Even if he wasn’t with the party, she imagines that his scent clung to the Paladins he’d associated with. The fact that they’ve been able to evade the Paladins for so long—and the Trinity Guard—is impressive. Though she thinks if they’ve been observing, surely they understand Lancelot isn’t a threat to them. The Ash Fey’s eyes remain on her. They dart to Lancelot but when he speaks he holds her gaze.

“What’s your name?” She asks. His eyes go to Lancelot who looks at him silently, giving nothing away.

“Hector,” he says, looking back at her, “my name’s Hector,” he looks almost doubtful for a moment and looks over at Lancelot, “have you told her anything?” Lancelot returns his gaze silently, “do you remember anything?”

Pym doesn’t know what Lancelot wants to say and keeps her mouth shut. She can see advantages and disadvantages to telling him the truth. Hector is the name that he remembers his brother having, but the two of them don’t look like brothers. And even if they are, Pym doubts that is an instant assurance that they are safe around him. Given what she knows about Lancelot and the Ash Folk. Squirrel looks at her and she gives the slightest shake of her head, making him silent.

“It’s fragmented,” Lancelot says finally.

Hector looks at him for a long, silent moment and Pym thinks she can almost see the resemblance. After a moment he takes a deep breath and then nods. Pym thinks about Lancelot remarking that her scent changed slightly with her emotions, she wonders if Hector can smell if Lancelot is lying or not. She knows he isn’t. But Hector doesn’t. Not until he inhales and then nods.

“I’ll escort you back to our camp,” he says, “we’ve been watching you but our leaders want to talk to you about your Queen.”

“We’ll go gather our things,” Lancelot says.

“I’ll wait here,” Hector says.

They give each other those long stares before Lancelot puts his hand on her and nudges Squirrel in front of them. He guides them back into the house, putting himself between them and Hector. Pym feels dozens of questions spinning through her head, but she knows most can wait. She holds for any signal that Lancelot might give that they need to run, but none come from him. He guides them back into the house and does a quick sweep of the room, moving them to a spot away from the makeshift patch.

“Gather your things,” he says to Squirrel.

“Wait are we going with him?” Squirrel asks, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”  
  
“No, but we need more fighters,” Lancelot says. Squirrel shifts his weight, “I can tell him we will join him in the morning.”

Squirrel seems to perk up a little at that and before Pym can get a word in, Lancelot leaves the house to speak to him. Pym grips Squirrel’s shoulder, listening for any sign of conflict but there’s only the low exchange of words. Then Lancelot comes back. Pym exhales in relief that he looks unharmed, though she knows harming him physically isn’t an easy thing to do.

“They’ll post guards around the house,” he says, “we can stay here and leave with them in the morning.”

“What did you tell them?” She asks.

“That we were here to bury the boy’s father,” he says, “and he needed more time to say goodbye. Hector—understood,” he adds.

“Is he your brother?” Squirrel asks. Lancelot nods, “I guess the good looks went to him.”

It’s an attempt at making things lighter and Lancelot smiles faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Pym can’t imagine how odd it must be for him. Not just to have found his brother or to learn that he’s been evading him for so long, but also what happened before. She knows how much her nose is stuffed up when she cries, she can’t imagine how odd it must be for Lancelot to have his senses robbed like that. How odd any of this must be. Squirrel doesn’t remark on how red Lancelot’s eyes are. It’s clear he’s been crying to everyone, but if he finds it embarrassing he doesn’t act like that.

Pym goes over to her pack and pulls out the extra squares of bandages she brought, holding them to Lancelot. He takes one, looking at her in confusion.

“Blowing your nose might help,” she offers.

“Water too,” Squirrel adds. Lancelot looks at him. He looks down, “I heard you through the hole in the roof.”

Pym winces, though Lancelot wasn’t exactly quiet. She did her best to muffle it but decades of sobs aren’t exactly meant to be quiet. Squirrel grabs the waterskin and gives it to him as well. She doubts Lancelot’s ever had someone to help him after he weeps—if he’s managed to weep at all in the past decades. She doubts it’s ever been anything like that. He doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with himself. Pym isn’t sure what to do either. What kind of comfort will he even accept. But just standing around or pretending it hasn’t happened isn’t something she fully knows how to do.

“He’s right, the water will help. I’m sure your head hurts.”

Lancelot drinks and the thirst seems to take him after the first sip. Pym feels relief seeing him listen to his needs in a non life or death situation. He could probably finish the waterskin three times over but the fact that he drinks at all instead of dismissing it as being alright is more progress than she would have expected.

“Do you want to get your things together?” She asks Squirrel.

“Can we come back here?” He asks.

The innocence in which he asks it makes her stomach clench.

“Maybe,” she says, “but if there are things you want to take you should get them.”

Squirrel considers this for a moment.

“Do you want to go to your house?”

The offer is a kind one but it makes something in Pym cringe at the thought. If only because she knows how it used to look and what state it’s probably in. Her house wasn’t tucked away like this. It was right in the line of the Paladin’s fury. And it wasn’t as finely made. Mostly she thinks it’s probably dust and going back there, it’s not something she things she has in her. Not right now.

  
“I’d rather remember it as it was,” she says, “I don’t think there’s anything left,” she smiles, “besides, I have everything I need from the Raiders.”

Squirrel considers it and then nods, though Pym imagines the issue isn’t going to be dropped fully until they’ve left this place behind. She doesn’t know if they will ever return to the Village, if there’s ever any need to. The thought makes her sad and angry, but it also brings relief. More relief than she’s proud to admit. The idea of dying here was scary to her, for reasons that had very little to do with the dying itself. She thinks she’ll be glad when they’re gone. Lancelot touches her arm and she looks at him.

“I can go to your house,” he offers, “if there’s anything—“

“There isn’t,” she promises. He touches the beads around her wrist and she shakes her head, “those didn’t matter.”

She doesn’t know how to put into words how back when she used them it felt like there was fear in her heart instead of whatever was supposed to be there when she prayed to the Hidden. She never felt connected with them and though the connection she knows she has feels strange, it also feels real. In a way that she never felt before. Lancelot’s eyes move across her features before he nods, willing to trust her word. Pym smiles as Squirrel starts moving around the home. She waits only a moment before pulling Lancelot into one of the farther corners.

“Your brother thinks we’re married,” she points out “why didn’t you tell him we aren’t?”

“The camps like he’s talking about are usually separated by men and women,” he says, “if they think we’re a family, we have a better chance of them keeping us together.”

“Oh,” she says, recognizing the logic in what he’s saying.

“They say they’re on our side but,“ he trails off.  
  
“No, you’re right,” she says quickly, “we don’t know. This feels like a glorified kidnapping.”  
  
“It is,” Lancelot says, “but we need them.”

“I know,” she agrees, crossing her arms against a chill that has nothing to do with the cold. After just narrowly surviving this, the idea of going through a glorified kidnapping is not one that she wants to deal with. Lancelot touches the back of her hand and she exhales, “you’re right, whatever keeps us together. But why did he think we’re married?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Lancelot says.

“Is it this?” She asks, holding up her fingers. Lancelot starts to shake his head and then stops.

“I don’t know,” he says again, “if they’ve been observing me since the island it could be because—“

“Because I haven’t let you out of my sight?” She asks with a weak smile.

“We’re both guilty of that,” he points out.

“I’m sorry,” she says, feeling strangely embarrassed at what he’s saying. Though they are both guilty of it. She glances over at Squirrel and thinks about Lancelot’s earlier weeping, “I imagine it wasn’t going to change.”

“No,” he says. He’s quiet for a moment, “I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I know marriage is something you said you didn’t want.”

She looks at him in surprise before remembering who she is dealing with. Marriage hasn’t been something she’s cared about or wanted. Especially not when it comes to the boys who have brought it up, as nice and life saving as they may be. She shakes her head.

“Being kidnapped makes me uncomfortable,” she says, “pretending to be your wife is probably going to be the easiest part of this.”

He smiles at that. Her hair is pulled back but for some reason she finds her fingers pushing an invisible lock of it back behind her ear. She looks as Squirrel examines things and puts the precious stuff into a careful pile on his bed. Lancelot watches as well.

“Do you feel better?” Pym asks quietly, not looking at him.

“Yes,” he says, “thank you.”

She nods.

“I’m sorry I hit your brother with a shovel,” she adds. 

“It was a good swing,” Lancelot says and the note of pride in his voice makes her smile in a way that hitting someone with a shovel probably shouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So cookies for everyone who guessed that this was Hector. We will find out more about him shortly. And I did warn everyone on Tumblr this was going to get super tropey so welcome to the mother of all cheesey romantic tropes: the fake marriage.
> 
> As always feedback is love. Thank you to those who commented/kudosed and sent me messages. It's beyond appreciated. I hope everyone who celebrates thanksgiving had a wonderful and safe one and that this chapter brings you a little joy. Onwards!


	102. Spark: Part 19

“You should go talk to him,” Squirrel says abruptly, “see if he wants to come to dinner if you don’t want to do it alone.”

Lancelot looks at him and then to Pym. From near the Fire, Pym glances at them but turns, giving them what privacy the house allows. He imagines she is going to be on Squirrel’s side as well. Lancelot doesn’t know what he was expecting in meeting Hector properly, but given their previous interaction and the history that unknowingly stretches between them, he imagines that it could be worse than a sword to the neck. Still there’s a disappointment that settles in his gut, one that makes him ache to touch the scar on his collarbone. He doesn’t want to go talk to him, no matter what Squirrel suggest.

“There will be time for that when we get to the camps.”  
  
“You’re not going to leave Pym and me alone,” Squirrel says, “and we’re never alone in them anyway.”

He has a point, Lancelot knows that. His excuses keep him rooted there as he tries to figure out how to convince them all this is foolish. But most of that rides on just wanting to be near them after they almost died and he imagines neither will like that. And they are both well enough to argue now. He remembers being desperate for that and though he is thankful, it’s also incredibly frustrating. He glances over to Pym but something catches his eye in a far corner, tucked away against the wall after the bed where Squirrel’s parent slept.

It’s another bed.

“You had a sibling,” he says to Squirrel. Pym looks down. Lancelot wonders why he feels strange at the realization, “who?”

Squirrel looks down and that same dread knots Lancelot’s stomach. Did he kill her? Is she tied to a cross somewhere as a blackened skeleton? Or worse? He looks at Pym as she walks over. Squirrel looks up at her too and she smiles gently at him. He nods and scuffs his foot, somewhat shyly all of a sudden. Pym pulls Lancelot a little away.

“His sister went to live with their uncle, a long time ago.”

She says it with something her voice that concerns him, but it’s hard to hear over the pounding in his ears. He may not have killed her. It rips through him like an attack, he’s forgotten how much having hope can hurt.

“She didn’t die in the attack?”

“No,” Pym says, “not in this one anyway.”

Lancelot nods and walks over to the bed. Squirrel follows but it’s tentative. Of all the places that Lancelot’s seen him barge into without a second thought, his hesitance for the speaks volumes. He trails behind him as Lancelot looks at the bed. He looks back at Squirrel who watches him carefully.

“Can I see if I’ve smelled her before?” He asks.

Squirrel shrugs and nods. Lancelot takes the corner of the quilt and smells it. It’s been cleaned, only the faintest scent clings to it. It’s different, the most he can equate it to is some kind of mix of Squirrel and the Sky Folk females that he knows. But nothing about it is familiar except for how it smells like Squirrel’s kin. He looks over to see the boy watching him sharply.

“I don’t recognize it,” he says. Squirrel relaxes a little and nods.

“You should go talk to him,” he says.

Lancelot looks at Pym who smiles encouragingly. He realizes that he knows a lot and very little about their families. He knows so much about them, it’s a strange disconnect to have. If Squirrel has a sister whose living with a Fey uncle somewhere, Lancelot knows there is a good chance she is dead. There is something horrifying and cruel if out of the three of them, he is the one with relative left. They deserve them—they want them. He knows he doesn’t deserve them and wanting them is complicated. After what he remembers, he’s not sure if he will ever truly want blood relatives. But he has one. Sitting outside. And he’s afraid to go back out and speak to him.

“You could invite him in,” Pym suggests.

Lancelot looks at them both. It’s tempting and he’s grateful, but what he and Hector might say to each other—he isn’t sure he wants them to hear it. No matter how irrational that feeling might be. They are standing in the ruins of their village that he burned down. They’ve seen what he’s done, they haven’t shunned him for it. But he still finds he’s waiting for that to happen. Even if he was just weeping in Pym’s arms. He shakes his head and moves to the door. He glances back at them both and they smile encouragingly as he steps out into the night.

Hector glances over his shoulder before Lancelot’s even fully out the door. The light from the moon catches his marks and illuminates them. Lancelot can see some similarities in how they fall from his eyes, but there’s differences too. A blend that shows their unshared heritage. And what binds them together. Lancelot moves forward, closer to him. Hector doesn’t turn but he doesn’t run, letting him approach.

“All the years hiding, I wondered if you knew it was me,” Hector says, “if we were just playing some new version of our boyhood games,” he shakes his head, “it never occurred to me that you didn’t remember.”

Lancelot says nothing. Would remembering have made a difference? Probably not. His memories were tainted by those final moments with his relatives on that beach. If it had saved his life, he probably still would have run to Father. It’s not something he’s proud of, but so little of his life is. He knows he wanted to survive then. Back when he believed this life was precious. Before he was warped into wanting to survive out of fear. Now he feels like some mix of the two.

“How did you survive the beach?” He asks. Hector looks at him in surprise before looking back at the moon, “I remember them trying to kill us,” he tries to push down the hope, “I remember running.”

“They did that,” Hector says, “they thought it was kinder than the fire,” he looks at him, “do you remember pushing them? You’ve got that scar on your collarbone,” Hector says, tapping his own, “you pushed me as well. Between the knife and the rocks—“ he motions to the scars on his face, “I knocked myself out. Managed to land with my face above the water somehow. But the blood made them think I was dead.”

“They didn’t check?”

“The Paladins had no reason to and the others were too busy trying to catch you. Then they were too busy trying to all die together,” a note of anger creeps into his voice, “I laid there until I was sure everyone was gone. Then I lived on the island for a while until some Knights came to check. They brought me back with them, which is how I wound up here.”

He’s not sure about the emotions that collide in his gut. He’s disappointed and relieved, all mixed into one. He’s also curious about the anger in Hector’s voice. Tristain speaks with pride about her parents and the Ash Folk’s sacrifice, Hector’s tone is far closer to what Lancelot feels when he thinks of that time. Though Hector has not spent the past decades trying to strike revenge at ghosts. Perhaps running from them is better. Lancelot isn’t sure.

“You recognized me?”

“Of course I recognized you,” Hector says, “but you weren’t yourself.”

Lancelot can understand what he’s saying. He has to remind himself that Gawain only spoke to him because he was captured. That Hector being the one in there would not have been good. The memory of Gawain, tied in that chair, so close to death and still desperately trying to reach some shred of humanity in him haunts Lancelot. More than he cares to admit. Gawain wasn’t the first Fey to be there, he wasn’t the first Fey to beg. But he was the first to try and protect Lancelot, even though it was foolish of him to think the Paladins didn’t know he was Fey. Lancelot blames it on the blood loss.

“Do they know we’re brothers?”

“Some do,” Hector says, “most don’t,” he surveys Lancelot, “it’s not something that comes up often.”

“I can see that,” Lancelot says dryly.

Hector’s grimace gives way to surprised humor, something that makes him look younger. They both must look much older than they are. Lancelot knows he deserves it, Hector does not. But life is rarely fair in that way. The orphans in the house behind him are proof of that.

“I remember you in the house,” he says.

“I lived with you,” Hector tells him, “my mother died having me and yours insisted. She was—kind. She didn’t treat me like a bastard.”

Lancelot remembers his mother in the few fragments but being cruel to a baby doesn’t seem like something she would do. But he knows that could just be some weakness to believe in the good of his family. Of someone that helped make him. People are rarely good or bad, he knows that now. His mother could have been kind until it came time to cut their throats to keep secrets.

“I don’t remember our father.”

Hector shrugs.

“I don’t remember him much either. We were too young to hunt, we didn’t have much of an interest for him. And your mother wanted to keep us close,” he looks almost sympathetic, “I don’t think she trusted him after he bedded my mother.”

“Did you trust him?”

“I was too little,” Hector starts, “you were kinder. I wanted to be around you more than him.”

“I only remember one mention of him,” Lancelot starts, “he was disappointed I didn’t want to hunt.”

“If he could only see what a hunter you’d become,” Hector remarks. It stings but Lancelot knows he deserves worse, “you hated killing,” he says, “when I heard rumors about the weeping monk, I didn’t think it was you until I smelled you. And even then I had to see you to be sure.”

Lancelot doesn’t think there’s an apology big enough. He still hates killing, he always has. But that hasn’t stopped him from doing it. Saying that he hates it while standing in the ruins of the village where he murdered so many is something he cannot bring himself to do. There is nothing he can say to make this right, or if there is they are words he does not know. He would say he deserve the pain of standing next to this man and having them be strangers, but that has another side. Hector doesn’t deserve to be related to a monster like what he became. What he is still capable of being.

“There’s a third,” he says. Hector raises his eyebrows, “a former member of the Trinity Guard.”

“Did they leave like you?”

“No,” he says, “but they’re starting to come around.”

Hector nods.

“What do you mean like me?” Lancelot asks.

“Rumor was you left with the boy,” Hector says, “you stopped showing up in the search parties, they became laughably easy to evade. We would have made contact sooner but we found the forest you blew up.”

Lancelot winces. He should have expected that Hector had also kept the secret of the Fey Fire. He expected some ramifications, but he didn’t expect it to have ruined so many lives. Lives that have and that have come to matter to him. He is glad Tristain is away from the Pope and the Guard but he thinks how much more difficult it was given she had no choice. Not like he did. And his choice feels like it was hardly one at all.

“Did they hurt you?” He asks.

“What?” Hector seems horrified at the suggestion, “no, of course not. They were upset and wanted me to explain but I wasn’t hurt for keeping a secret. All Fey have them, ours is just unusually valuable.”

Lancelot has no say in what the Fey he’s been with have done to him, but Hector’s horror at the suggestion of being hurt is soothing. Considering the reaction of the Church, it’s good to know that of the survivors one had a softer landing.

“We started following you after the island,” he says, “I felt your Fire in the temple. We saw you with your family. But I wanted to be sure.”

Lancelot nods, he cannot blame him for that. He would do the same.he is doing the same.

“And I wasn’t trying to kill you with the sword, it’s something we did with sticks as boys. I didn’t think you had forgotten.”

“Repressed,” Lancelot admits finally, “I pushed it back. Pym helped me remember.”

Hector nods and accepts that, telling him something like he repressed things feels like a big deal. But it also feels right. Even though Lancelot knows a few months ago the idea of sharing information readily would be unfathomable to him.

“She didn’t know you weren’t trying to hurt me,” he says.

“I figured, she didn’t try it again,” Hector says, “did she try that with you when you first met?”

Lancelot thinks back to the tent. How injured he was physically and how broken in every other way. He thinks about how Pym had very little idea of how to actually heal any of it. How she still managed to reach through all the sharp, fractured bits and find that shred that made him who he was. How she managed to coax it to life and then drag it until instead of a shred it was pieces and now he thinks he may almost be whole. Not because of her, but because she helped him learn to do it for himself.

“She made me heal for the first time in a while,” he says, “she’s a healer.”

“I guess that’s how she knew how to aim with the shovel,” Hector remarks.

“She knows you aren’t a threat.”

“Good, I’d hate to have more of our family try to kill me. Or you,” he adds.

Lancelot nods at the sentiment.

“We’ve moved past that.”

Hector snorts and something like pride warms in Lancelot’s chest. Something familiar. Like making Hector laugh is something he cares very much about doing.

“Well, I’m glad to see your sense of humor survived,” his brother remarks.

Lancelot smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a good holiday and stayed safe! Please let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Onwards!


	103. Spark: Part 20

“There’s a problem,” Pym says. Lancelot looks up at her, “I’m a terrible liar.”

“She is,” Squirrel echoes.

Lancelot looks puzzled and she hates to throw a damper on this plan or put anyone in the position, but she is a terrible liar. And when Lancelot came in, she saw the way the guards looked at them. It reminded her that they are going to have questions. More questions than when she stowed away on the ship. They needed a healer. This group of Fey are curious at best, but they are all in their rights to want revenge on Lancelot. She and Squirrel are the easiest ways to get that. And even if they decide not to get revenge, there are still going to be a lot of questions for the Fey who decided to marry the Weeping Monk.

“Don’t lie then,” Lancelot says.

“They think I’m your wife.”

“Everyone back home thought we were sleeping together,” he points out, “let them draw their own conclusions.”

“They’re going to have questions.”

“Don’t answer them,” Lancelot suggests.

Pym rolls her eyes. Of course he would say that. Lancelot has gone most of his life with secrets and letting people draw their own conclusions. He knows how to use to get what he wants—considering what he wanted was to be a terrifying tale that spread among the Fey. So they would be afraid and they would know who he was before Goliath set a hoof in their village.

“We are trying to get them on our side,” Pym points out, “if they think I am sane, me marrying you makes you someone whose more than a monster.”

Lancelot frowns.

“I thought were doing it so they would have us stay together,” he says.

“We can do it for multiple reasons,” Pym says, “this is a good opportunity. It will help them give you a chance,” she sighs at the look on his face, “so when you look like that, they won’t think you’re about to go on a rampage.”

“You could cry again,” Squirrel offers, “or you could tell them how you became friends and then let them figure it out,” he adds, “you share too much, that’s why people know you’re lying.”

Pym knows she’s a terrible liar. She also cannot stand the idea that they have an opportunity. Not to trick anyone really but to let them see Lancelot in a light that they may not have initially. It will give them a chance to recognize what she already sees in him. They don’t have time for them to figure it out on their own. And Lancelot cannot be risked. Them pretending to be married will serve several purposes, if she can pull it off when she’s still such a terrible liar.

“We’ll tell them the truth,” Lancelot says, starting to get up, “I’ll explain to Hector—“

“No!”

Lancelot hesitates and then straightens up, looking at her carefully. Pym can feel her face is warm, but not warm in a way that she’s familiar with. Nor is she sure why there’s fear pounding though her, as if what Lancelot is about to do is a slight against the only correct plan. Lancelot moves forward slowly and picks up a bowl, pouring water into it and offering it to her. Pym picks it up and something in her screams that she should set it down, but she forces herself to look into the depths of it.

Her Fingers are different.

They’re longer and look almost angry, spreading up and across more of her face. As she stares, they seem to morph into what she’s familiar with, retreating somewhat but still longer than she’s used to seeing. She forces herself not to drop the bowl as she wants to do and instead set it down, aware that the Fingers still stretch across more of her skin. She runs her tongue across her bottom lip, looking at Squirrel and Lancelot.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says, trying to will her Fingers back, “they’ll go away. It’s fine.”

“Why did you try to stop me?” Lancelot asks, not sitting down.

  
“Because there’s a good reason not to blow our cover,” Pym says. Lancelot gives her a long, silent look. One that makes her oddly nervous, “sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

Squirrel looks at her for a moment and she sees his Fingers appear. There’s a whisper in the back of her head that feels more like a gust of wind than a voice. She can feel the marks on her face change, as if her soul is protesting what he’s trying to do. His Fingers vanish and he looks up at Lancelot and shakes his head slightly.

“We should go,” Squirrel says.

“I’ll speak to Hector,” Lancelot replies, “do you have everything you wanted to take?” Squirrel nods and goes to tie up his quilt, “We’ll figure this out on the way,” Lancelot says, walking to the door.

“Don’t,” Pym says and it comes out oddly tight.

Lancelot turns and looks at her silently for a moment, judging her reaction before he opens the door regardless. A collision of disappointment and relief churns through her and she forces herself to sit down. Lancelot opens the door and Hector comes forward.

“We need to leave. Now.”

“It’s dark,” Hector says. She doesn’t see what transpires between them but Hector sighs and nods, “I’ll tell the others.”

“Thank you.”  
  
Hector nods and Lancelot comes back inside. Lancelot hands her his cloak and makes sure Squirrel has his things. Squirrel looks longingly around the room and Pym feels guilty that they have to leave on her account. Perhaps they don’t. She opens her mouth to say it but Squirrel looks up at her and grabs her hand.

“Come on,” he says, “I want to ride.”

“We’ll try to come back,” Pym promises.

  
Squirrel nods and leads her from the house. Lancelot takes his bag of things and wraps it in the tarp, protecting it as he packs up the horse. Two others who have been guarding them pack the horses with efficiency that rivals Lancelot’s. They each have a mount with them but she realizes that leaves them one mount shy. That doesn’t seem to bother Hector as he wraps his face and pulls on his hood.

“Ride with Squirrel,” Pym says to Lancelot.

“I’m fine,” Squirrel says.

Lancelot looks between them both and then speaks quietly to Squirrel. He boosts him into the saddle and adjusts the stirrups for him. Squirrel grips the reins and nods at him as Lancelot comes back, cupping his hands so she can mount. She looks at him and then back at the house. This is too much of a fuss.

“Pym.”

“We don’t have to go—“ she starts.

“Look at me,” Lancelot says. She forces her eyes back, “get on Goliath.”

She puts her foot in his hands. He boosts her into the saddle and swings himself up behind her. It seems like it takes one motion for him to do both. Pym thinks she should be behind him but he doesn’t even give the option of it. His arms are on either side of her and she can barely see the house or the village with how he brackets her. When she looks forward, Hector seems to have vanished. Then in the trees there’s a faint glow.

“Makes it easier,” one guard mutters.

The other snorts and both take off. Squirrel urges speed out of his own mount and Lancelot easily follows. Pym inhales sharply, though there’s no reason to. She’s been on Goliath before, under much more dire circumstances. But this feels almost painful. Like she’s being ripped apart in a way that has nothing to do with her body.

“Lancelot—“

“Just hold on,” he says.

She nods and blinks back tears that seem wholly unnecessary in the circumstances. She didn’t even want to be here. Now she feels like it’s physically painful to ride away. It’s a sharp turn of emotions, one she can’t quite keep straight. But she can just focus on staying on the horse as they ride through the darkness. The thing that gets caught in her throat could be a sob or a scream, but instead when she speaks it’s words.

“They said to stop running.”

Lancelot’s grip tightens around her and he looks across her face. Whatever he sees there, the familiar determination falls across his features and he looks ahead. Pym knows it’s foolish, but in a sea of foolish choices trusting him seems like the smartest move. Hector continues to light the way for them as the horses push through the darkness. They don’t pause even when they turn from the main road, though by all accounts they should. But the horses seem to know the way. Or Hector is a super naturally gifted guide. It’s probably the latter.

It’s nearly dawn by the time they get where they’re going.

It looks like just another part of the forest. The riders don’t even dismount, they motion where they want them. Lancelot nods upwards and Pym looks but she can only see the trees. Before she can ask, rails snap up and box them in. There’s a squeak and the platforms begin to rise. Goliath snorts and Lancelot lays his hand on him as they go up the trees. At a certain point, platforms appear, placed above the branches so it’s difficult to see them. At the top of one, Hector is waiting for them and hands Lancelot a pair of gloves.

“Thank you,” Pym says

“It’s no trouble,” Hector assures her, helping her down and then going to help Squirrel.

Pym looks around. The platforms are well placed and simple, several tents cluster each one. There are so many of them. Her head spins. It’s as big as a their group before Avalon, if not larger. Probably larger. Lancelot seems surprised at the group as well, though he is also far more concerned with looking at her.

“Are they gone?” She asks

“Yes,” he says.

She nods, trying to not shudder. It’s clear that the ceremony has strengthened her bond with the Hidden. But she’s never had a voice like that in her head, she’s not sure where she ends and it begins. It’s a mess, to be sure. But as she looks around, she realizes that there might be other Sky Folk here. There might be people who can help them. It hurts to feel hopeful that among all these people that might be someone she knows. But she feels it all the same.

“The leadership’s going to send someone to bring you to them, I know you must want to rest,” Hector says apologetically, “but—“

“We understand,” Lancelot says, giving her an apologetic look.

She smiles back, it will be alright. She can pretend, though the idea of using it as ardently as she thought back in the house now makes her stomach twist. Squirrel is right, if she keeps it vague and let’s people make their assumptions, it should work.

Lancelot is a good man, he can show them the same things he showed her. He doesn’t need a fake wife and as long as the people here give them a chance and meet Guinevere, what does she care what they think of her? Even if there are Sky Folk here, it wouldn’t be the first time she attached herself to someone no-one liked. That doesn’t really matter. It’s not as though she has kin here.

“Pym?”

It’s rotten luck to get what you want and to realize you didn’t want it. The voice is recognizable even though it’s been decades since she heard it. It makes sense he’s here, a group this large probably has need of multiple skilled healers. And as much as she wishes he was a terrible healer along with being a terrible family member, she knows it’s not true. She takes a deep breath and turns around to face him, though she also wishes that the platform would splinter before she manages it. It holds firm, no matter how much it feels like she’s falling.

“Hello Uncle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love, thank you to everyone who left some on the last chapter! I’ll see you in the next one!


	104. Spark: Part 21

Pym and the man look at each other.

It’s a strange thing to see, if not for the faint similarities he’s not sure he would know if they were related. Even the faint similarities he can pick up on would be lost in the heat of battle. First relations, brothers and sisters and parents are easier to spot than nieces and uncles. He’ll give Lenore credit though, the man has enough passing similarities with Merlin that they could be equal in their resemblance to Nimue. Lancelot looks at Squirrel who seems like an upset child trying to be strong and walks over, laying his hand on his shoulder.

“But he’s awful,” Squirrel protests.

“Be still,” Lancelot tells him.

Both of them look towards them and Jonah doesn’t seem to fully recognize Squirrel, which makes sense. Boys at Squirrel’s age grow like weeds. Still having Squirrel pronounce you awful without any idea who he is, is something Lancelot remembers being particularly annoying. They just saved the boys life, they don’t need anyone to change that. If Jonah is capable of such things. Jonah looks confused still and Pym offers no explanation. So he turns to Hector.

Hector puts his arm across his chest in some kind of bow.

“When you said there were Sky Folk with him, I wasn’t expecting it to be Pym.”

Pym makes a sound in the back of her throat.

“Shockingly I’ve survived,” she says and there’s anger in her voice that Lancelot hasn’t heard in a while, “I’m surprised you stopped running long enough to find this place,” she snaps.

“I came here some time ago,” Jonah says.

Hector looks at Lancelot, something pleading in his gaze. It’s clear that Jonah came here some time ago and whatever happened since then, he’s risen through the ranks. He’s the leader that they are here to see. Or one of them anyway. As much as Pym wants to tell him off, Lancelot knows right now her anger is not entirely her own. And even if it was, the short term satisfaction is not going to be useful. No matter how much it is earned.

“We thank you for your hospitality,” he says, trying not to cringe when all of their eyes slam into him, their eyes a mix of fear and revulsion.

“Hector has vouched for you,” Jonah says. Lancelot nods, “the others—-

“He’s my Squire and he and Pym are together,” Squirrel says, “I’m Percival, Gullayad’s son. Gawain Knighted me.”

Hector raises an eyebrow at him and Lancelot nods. He sees no shame in being Squirrel’s Squire, even if the arrangement is more complicated than it would seem. Hector doesn’t press it, though if he’s been observing Lancelot knows he’s seen him teaching Squirrel more than the other way around.

“We’re all kin,” Pym says.

“You two are married?” Jonah asks.

“As married as you are,” Pym snaps. She glances at Hector, “do they not know you left your wife and daughter behind when you ran here?”

“Nimue was—“

“We know,” Hector says quickly, “perhaps we should speak in the morning. We’ve ridden through the night.”

“That’s not possible,” Jonah says, almost apologetically, “not with him.”

“Speak to me,” Lancelot says, “let them rest,” he nudges Squirrel who yawns dramatically.

“That’s not possible,” Jonah says.

“I need to speak to Pym,” he says.

They look at each other and nod. Lancelot motions Pym over and it seems to take effort to come over to him. Her Fingers haven’t shown yet, but it’s a near thing. He can smell the way the anger has changed her scent already. He sees Jonah looking at them and turns so the only thing Jonah can see is his back, though Pym immediately tries to crane her neck to look at him.

“We need them,” he reminds her.

“Not him,” she snaps and this time her Fingers do come out.

“Yes,” he says, “you need to control yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he says, “you’ve been chosen as a Summoner.”

  
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m not powerful like you. I just got chosen because—“

“There was no-one else?”

“Don’t interrupt me!”

Her voice is loud and angry and the Fingers become stark against her skin. Any hope he had of helping her by putting distance between her and the Sky People’s village is dashed. He glances up to the somewhat complicated web of rope and pulleys that seem to move the platforms around and stabilize them. Now is not the time for someone like Pym to lose control of a newly heightened power. One knot coming undone could mean a lot of death. Pym hasn’t followed his gaze though, she’s looking at him. Still angry. Still with her Fingers out.

  
Stupidly, he realizes he has no idea how to reach her.

It’s not like when she was able to reach him by suggesting that he pray to dampen his Fire. He has no idea how she figured out how to do that. There’s something wild about her, something that he hasn’t seen before. But he knows if they go with Jonah while she’s like this, it’s going to be difficult to get these people on their side. No matter how justified she is in their anger. No matter how badly he deserves her anger. He wracks his brain for anything. The only time he’s come close is when they were on the shores of Avalon, but generating Fire here won’t be welcome.

With no other particularly brilliant ideas, he grabs his prayer beads and puts them in her hand.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting but she closes her fingers over them and looks down, then back at him in confusion. The confusion is preferable to the other emotional wave she was caught in, one he can smell is not entirely her own. It’s something they have no choice but to sort through after this. He keeps his eyes on her as she grips the beads. The paleness of her knuckles is familiar. He has no idea how many times his own grip was around them just as tightly.

“I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

“I’m sorry for yelling,” she says, pressing her free hand to her cheek, “are they gone?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Here,” she tries to give the beads back but he shakes his head.

“Focus on them,” he advises.

She nods, still looking unsettled but tucking them and her hand into her pocket. They approach the others again and Lancelot nods to them, letting Hector and Jonah lead them. Goliath huffs behind him but Lancelot knows he will remain there.

“Your horse navigates well for having one eye,” Hector says, “was he born that way?”

“He lost it to an arrow,” he says, “from an attack by the Trinity Guard.”

Hector glances at Jonah and Lancelot realizes what he’s doing, though Jonah’s only noticeable reaction is to clear his throat. Hector is on their side and though he knows he should be suspicious of it, instead he finds himself grateful for it. Jonah leads them up a series of smaller platforms embedded into the side of a tree like mushrooms and to an even higher level. The platform they step onto finally is one completely suspended from the tree. One that can be lowered quickly in case of an attack. There’s several people waiting for them there, all Fey. Lancelot doesn’t think there is a human among them. It’s a strange jolt from the mixed culture he’s always been up around.

He doesn’t know how Hector has stood the smell and the forest all these years.

“There was a time not too long ago when we would have killed you on sight,” one of them points out, “You’ve been vouched for.”

“I vouch for him too,” Jonah speaks up and they look at him, “my niece, Pym,” he says motioning to her, “she says they’re kin.”

“She’s your niece?”

Jonah nods. Lancelot realizes that though he finds Pym distinctive, it’s not in the same way he is. Describing a Fey with hip length red hair is not an automatic connection. One of the women has he hair unbound and it’s almost to her calves. It’s clear that, like most of the Sky Folk, Jonah underestimated Pym’s ability to survive. He braces himself for her scent to change in anger but she manages to control herself. All of them look to Hector whose been the one giving reports. He looks at them all steadily.

“I wasn’t aware of the connection.”

They all nod and Lancelot is amazed at the trust they put in him, even after finding out he was hiding his Fey Fire and another mistake, they don’t act like he’s embarrassed or failed them. There’s no rebuke. Even their reaction to finding out about the Fey Fire seems to have amounted to a stern talking to. An envy he barely has the words for settles in him, even as he tries to push it away. 

“Is he safe to be here?”

“Yes,” Hector says.

“And the Fire?”

“Controlled, but I can have him on my platform to be safe,” he glances at them, “perhaps we can speak of the rest of it when they’ve rested? Two are recovering from the Pox.”

The leaders confer quietly for a moment. Jonah looks over the most and when they return, Lancelot braces to be told that they must speak of everything. 

“We will speak of this tomorrow when you are rested,” he says, “you used the stores in the temple to cure yourselves?” Pym nods, “I’m surprised there was anything left.”

“There wasn’t, Lancelot smelled the mix we needed,” she says.

They seem to approve but Lancelot isn’t foolish enough to think a few good deeds erases the fact that most of the people are here because of him and the Paladins. Saving his family or even a handful of them doesn’t bring back the families that have been lost. Still the few deeds seem to buy them one night of safety. Or one night where the greatest threat is someone coming in to slit his throat in retribution. The leaders all seem to agree that this can be spoken of later and Lancelot isn’t too much of a threat.

“I’ll take them back with me,” Hector says.

No-one tries to protest.

Lancelot nudges Pym and she glares half heartedly.

“Goodnight, uncle,” she says.

He nods his head and they depart. Hector leads them along several winding platforms to one that is suspended between two trees and seemingly reachable only by a bridge. Below them the horses are grazing and Lancelot relaxes at the sight of a Goliath with the others.

They don’t want me to burn down anything in my sleep,” Hector explains.

“I don’t know how you stand being around the trees and the Fey,” Lancelot admits.

“Balm under my nose and “closely guarding my identity as an Ash Folk”,” he says, “it’s better now.”

There’s a chorus of whispers behind them and Lancelot turns, smelling the Fey even as they hide. Hector smiles and shakes his head as the scents change with a bit of fear and a bit of excitement. It’s oddly nice to not have to voice what he smells. Several footsteps peel off and race to a nearby platform.

“The little ones want a look at you,” Hector says, “we’d follow the Paladins and we picked most of them up. Some have left with their kin but most have stayed.”

“I thought they would be more afraid.”

“Children are resilient,” Hector says, “when given the chance.”

Lancelot thinks immediately of Squirrel more than any other. But also now of Bors and the other little ones. It’s a strange thing to have people to miss like that, even if they have only been gone a few days. When he looks over at Pym, she smiles back, seemingly more herself than she has been in the past few hours. It’s another thing they will have to figure out and adjust to, but there are other Sky Folk here. Maybe they can help as well.

“Come on,” Hector says, leading them inside the rounded tent that covers the platform.

It’s a strange thing to walk into a place that smells familiar. But this one does. It’s the closest thing Lancelot thinks he’ll ever have to walking back in time to where he came from. As he looks around, things make more sense than they did when he saw the ruins of the houses on the island. It’s like fitting a puzzle together the he didn’t know that he wanted to solve. Hector pulls out a trunk and brings it over, setting it down.

“There’s things here from when we first came to the Sky Folk, before the elements got them. When we heard more Sky Folk survived we kept them safe.”

“Thank you,” Pym says, “I’m sorry for all the trouble, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing,” Lancelot says immediately, “you were just chosen as a Summoner.”

“I don’t even know what that fully means,” Pym admits before seemingly remembering that Hector is here. He doesn’t seem particularly alarmed or concerned, “I wasn’t meant to be that.”

“Lancelot and I weren’t meant to survive,” Hector points out, motioning at the scars across his face, “but we did. The Gods are funny like that. Or God.”

If there’s one thing Lancelot believes it’s that all of their deities have a sick sense of humor. If he’s alive anyway. Pym smiles at that and nods.

“You must be exhausted, you can sleep over here,” Hector says, “give me a hand.”

Together he and Hector tack up a sheet to block off a portion for them. They help unroll their bedrolls and Squirrel nearly dives headfirst into his. Exhaustion winning out over everything else. Pym looks at him as he moves to the opening.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he tells her.

She nods.

All of this is strange and wonderful but he still slips out of the tent to make sure Goliath and the other horse are alright. Goliath looks up at him as he stands on the edge of the bridge, swishing his tail before deciding the grass is more interesting. After the days that they’ve had, Lancelot can’t blame him for that. He’s glad, for once, that the horse can get rest and decide grass is more interesting.


	105. Spark: Part 22

  
She wakes to the sound of wet snow.

It’s still cold out, but the snow they’ve dealt with has been soft. This feels heavier. It makes her want to pull the covers over her head and do her best to ward off the chill. She’s not cold, how could she be? Lancelot is like a furnace. Squirrel has found his way closer and is also sandwiched bedside him. If he minds the bodies, it doesn’t show on his face. The more comfortable he’s become, the harder he sleeps. And given where they are, who they are with, he barely stirs when she gets up and peers out to see Hector working quietly. He glances over his shoulder at her and smiles, so she moves forward.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Is that Ash Folk bread?” She blurts out before remembering his question, “sorry, I’m feeling alright. You?”

“It is,” he says, “I’m fine. All healed.”

“Good,” she nods, her eyes straying to his hands.

“Do you want to help?”

She hesitates a moment before nodding. She’s not sure if it’s just because he thinks she’s married to Lancelot or if it’s because of how close they are. She doesn’t want to ask and raise suspicion. Before she can linger in it, she gets interested in what he’s

doing. The process is strange, not like the folds that make up the Sky Folk bread. There’s no sweetness or milk or butter. It really is a few ingredients that have been prepared the night before and left out to rise. Everything else seems to be in how it’s folded and shaped.

“You brought this from the island?” She asks at the paste in the jar that is responsible for the rising.

“No,” he says, “but I knew how to make it,” Hector says, “I started again when I came here.”

Pym thinks of all Lancelot’s frustrations with his kind. The strange mix of longing and hatred that seems to color all of them. She thinks of her own frustrations with the things she remembers. Even if she doesn’t love every memory, she’s glad for what she has. What she’s able to carry on. In whatever way that she can. When she and Hector have shaped the dough, they have to leave it for another rise. Hector keeps glancing at her and Pym knows she shouldn’t invite the questions she sure he has, but he’s not the first to have them. She figures that she may as well rip the bandage off and ask the first one.

“When did you start following him?”

“We always tracked him,” Hector says, “for this? Around the beach where Gawain appeared.”

She’s surprised by how long. Though she thinks she probably shouldn’t be. The two of them have been playing cat and mouse for nearly their entire lives.

“How did you forgive him?” Hector asks.

“By getting to know him,” Pym says, “but it wasn’t something I did easily,” Hector nods, “I was angry and then I was confused. For a while. But the more we got to know each other the more I started to trust him. Even before I could admit it without feeling guilty,” Hector nods, “do you?”

“Forgive him?” He shrugs, “he saved my life. The young ones and I have—complicated feelings towards him,” he admits. Pym nods, “but I still remember him from when we were boys. I want to know the man he’s become.”

“You’ll have a chance,” Pym says.

“I hope so,” he agrees.

It’s a reminder that it isn’t guaranteed they will leave her alive. Or that these Fey will want to help them. Urgency and panic swell up like nausea and she shoves them down, gripping the beads still in her pocket. They shouldn’t ground her like they do, but at the moment Pym is just glad that they work and she isn’t running around isn’t her Fingers out. Nimue knew how to come back from that. Pym isn’t sure she is even capable of returning. Hector gives her a concerned look and she tries to smile reassuringly.

“I wasn’t anointed before I came back to the village,” she admits. He glances at her hand and she shows him the beads. His face goes blank in a way that is eerily familiar on someone else’s face.

“You don’t have a problem with it?” He asks, “with his Faith?”

“I did,” she says, “but it’s like him. It’s a part of him. And I know what having someone in charge does to a faith,” she adds, “Lenore, Jonah’s wife was High Summoner,” she explains. Hector winces, “he didn’t tell you.”

“No,” he says.

Pym hates the similar threads that seem to run through their stories. Lying to them when they were always planned to be together in Hector’s home feels foolish. Though at the same time she knows if Hector didn’t think they were together, she would have been segregated. Maybe farther than the platform. It makes that familiar bitterness well up in her, one that has nothing to do with the Hidden but something that all females share. That doesn’t make it any easier. Hector glances back at the curtain.

“He sleeps hard,” he remarks.

“This is the hardest I’ve ever seen him sleep,” Pym says, “even when we went to the island, I had to drug him and he fought it the whole way,” she shakes her head, “the past few days have been hard.”

She knows that she and Squirrel have been dying, and that has been hard. But Lancelot being powerless like that must have been horrifying. And on top of that, being convinced that if they survived they would hate him properly—Pym doesn’t blame him for falling apart. Or for being exhausted. She’s just glad that they are somewhere where he can do it safely. Or as safely as anything is when it comes to him.

“I hope being followed didn’t make it worse.”

“I don’t think it mattered,” Pym admits, “going there was our best chance—our only chance for Squirrel—I don’t think that you following would have changed that.”

Hector nods and Pym wonders how much they have in common, even with all the years that have separated them. She can see the similarities but there’s a gentleness and a maturity about Hector that she can only see beginning in Lancelot. To her, it seems like Hector is a healed scar while Lancelot is still often a gaping wound. Often, but not all the time. It’s not something she ever thought possible but she sees him healing. Settling. Being something beyond the things that have happened to him. She isn’t sure what to think about it, just that she knows how she sees him is shifting. She hears Hector say something but realizes she’s been glancing at the tent and not listening.

“Sorry, what did you say?” She asks.

“I asked when you got married,” Hector says.

Damn, Pym thinks. This is what she didn’t want to happen. She glances down at her hands and tries not to overthink her response. She has to reframe it in her head from them being married to them being family. It’s her only chance at not destroying things. She doesn’t have to think hard about when that was.

“On the way back from the island,” she says, “on the boat,” she glances down again at her hands, “we weren’t sure what this meant or if I was even supposed to have it,” she explains, “but it made us think about being family.”p

“How did you get the clay?” He asks.

“Lancelot remembered and he missed a spot on his Marks,” she says, “there wasn’t anyone to help except me.”

Hector nods. He doesn’t seem angry. When she thinks about it, Tristain didn’t either. Pym knows that even without their ‘marriage’, from the moment they walked back into camp together after that first separation it’s been clear they are close. Or maybe it was his unapologetic reaction to sharing the Fire with them, though even at the time it was a big deal. Either way, from that first night when he came into her tent it’s stopped being as clear as it maybe should have been. Though she’s tried desperately to cling to the demarcations.

“I did not think our family would be bigger when we met again,” Hector says and something relaxes in her at the notion that he still considers them family.

“Pym?”

She turns to see Squirrel coming out of the tent rubbing his eyes. They still look horrible and will for some time. He’s stopped bleeding but the bruises will remain. Hector’s word is the only thing that has let them in so far and the trust he’s willing to put in Lancelot is humbling. Squirrel looks at them both before focusing on her, somewhat shy around the others. That’s another thing. Between her Hidden induced anger and Squirrel’s shyness, it’s a miracle that Lancelot has managed to be the one to not get them all thrown off one of the platforms.

“Good morning,” she says, “do you feel okay?”

“It hurts to talk,” he says.

“I’ll boil some water,” Hector says quickly.

Pym crouches by him.

“Where?” She asks, “or all over?”

“All over,” he says. He looks around, “what are you doing?”

“We’re making bread.”

Squirrel nods.

“Am I still sick?”

“No,” Pym says quickly, “but we have to heal. You were sicker than me,” she reminds him, “the bruises are going to hurt for a bit but we can help with your throat at least.”

She looks up to see Lancelot finally emerging from the sheet. He seems surprised at being the last one up and despite the relief she feels at seeing him, she can’t help but smile at his mildly perturbed look. When their eyes meet, he glances away almost like finally getting a good nights sleep in a week is something to be embarrassed about. But Squirrel’s obvious discomfort has him coming over to where they are and crouching by the boy.

“Where?”

“My throat and back,” he says. Lancelot looks at him and he nods, Lancelot pushes up his shirt and something dark crosses his face. Pym looks and winces at the dark splotches that cover his back, “Pym and Hector are making tea.”

Lancelot puts his hand on one of the bruises and Squirrel relaxes fractionally, his heat soothing the soreness. Pym glances around for anything that they can use to replicate the sensation. Hector watches them for a moment before he moves several small cloth balls towards the fire.

“You’re a brave boy,” He says to Squirrel. They all look at him, “we weren’t so brave as children.”

Hector returns with the hot water and they add some herbs and honey. He also takes the black bags which have been warmed by the fire. He gives them to Lancelot who helps place them on the worst of the bruises. They tuck Squirrel near the fire so he’s sitting up and a bit more comfortable. It’s just soreness but Pym feels an ache in her at seeing him so uncomfortable. She knows that he was sick first, but she hates that she’s alright and he’s the one in pain. Lancelot touches her arm, bringing her back from her miserable thoughts.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel fine,” she says honestly, “really, I’m not sore. I wasn’t as sick.”

“Not at all?”

She shakes her head. He still doesn’t fully seem to believe her but it’s not as though she’s going to shuck off her dress and show he unbraided skin. The only marks on her are the burns from the sparks and eve those don’t hurt like burns should. When he glances at her hands she holds them up to show him and he frowns, taking her hand in his.

“They’re healed.”

“I know,” she says.

“It must be the Hidden,” he says.

He’s probably right and the shiver is impossible to hide as she pulls her hand back. It’s an uncomfortable, horrible thought that the Hidden have healed her. It just makes her think of Dof and their refusal to fix someone who was so kind. Who saved her life in so many ways. It’s worse when she hears something like a whisper on the wind, one that gets louder when she tries to turn her head away from it. Lancelot’s hands grasp her shoulders, steadying her.

“I didn’t want them to heal me,” she says.

“They said not to run,” he reminds her.

“Well they should have asked me about my feelings on it,” she says, fumbling out the beads in her pocket, “I didn’t want them in my head.”

Lancelot is smart enough to know her frustration isn’t directed at him. Thankfully. She doesn’t know who she’s supposed to direct it towards. The Hidden have saved their lives. But they’ve taken so much. And now with Jonah having their fate in his hands she wants to scream and tell the entire world to go away. Just for a while. Lancelot keeps his hands on her shoulders and somehow she manages to pick up the rhythm of his breathing, steadying her further. She sees Hector has turned away politely but she’s stopped caring what people think of her and Lancelot together. Him being there wouldn’t make her step away.

“You’ll learn,” Lancelot says to her.

“I know,” she agrees, though she know her displeasure shows on her face. Lancelot’s look softens and she feels his thumb move against her shoulder, “I may need to restring these before I do.”

“That’s fine,” he assures her.

She sighs and nods, feeling the whispers retreat a bit as they stand there. She looks over at Squirrel whose watching them closely and gives her a slight nod of encouragement. Whether it’s about the relationship they’re pretending to have or him seeing she’s under control, she isn’t sure. But either way she nods back before looking up at Lancelot. His eyes scan her face and she meets them, nodding again. But she’s not sure if it’s for her sake or his. Hector doesn’t seem alarmed at her outburst, for which she’s grateful. Then again, her yelling is nothing compared to what the two of them can do when they lose control. They look as a Hector turns to the bread that’s rising near the fire and even Squirrel cranes his neck to see what’s going on.

“Should we go outside?” He asks her.

Fresh air sounds nice but Pym can see the interest in his gaze at what Hector is doing and shakes her head.

“No, it’s alright. Let’s stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages! I hope you enjoyed the chapter and would love to hear your thoughts! See you in the next one!


	106. Spark: Part 23

The smell of the dough is achingly familiar.

Lancelot cannot remember the last time he was asleep like that and past the point where everyone was up. He never would have expected it here, of all places. But the smell of Hector and the tang of the dough lure him into a sense of safety he knows he needs to overcome. He needs to remember why he knows this isn’t safe, no matter how hard he wishes that it might be. The relief he feels when Pym says they should stay is not something he’s proud of, even though he’s proud of her strength. Instead of going to the dough or Hector, he returns to Squirrel and sits by the boy.

“Better?” Squirrel hesitates a moment before shaking his head, “the throat?”

“A little,” he says.

“I cannot smell the sickness on you,” Lancelot tells him and sees Squirrel relax a little, “but the bruises will take time to fade.”

“We can still train right? I don’t want to fall behind.”

“You’ll do better when you’ve healed,” he says and Squirrel makes a noise of disgust that shows how his throat is truly feeling better.

“Like how you waited to heal?”

Hector and Pym both smile and turn their heads. Lancelot knows that he healed somewhat and immediately started pushing his body. He didn’t expect Squirrel to throw it back in his face like that. He can speed up his healing, but there are things that take time. And there are things that he refuses to give time to. He cannot wait for the wounds in his mind to heal before he lives his life. Movement has always helped him feel better, sometimes it is the only way he knows how to communicate. He knows that Pym is aware of it, but given Hector’s response, he has a feeling that it is not something new.

“When you’re my age you can choose to do that as well,” he says.

“Don’t encourage him,” Pym says, “you both could do with listening to your bodies more instead of acting like you just need to go harder and everything will work out.”

“That’s because it has,” Squirrel says, “he can heal and we both have you.”

“That is not a good reason!” Pym argues, still managing to blush at the compliment even though it’s clear they would both be dead if not for her quick thinking in the temple, “I’d like to not have to heal anyone for a bit after that,” she adds.

“If Jonah comes back we’ll have two healers,” Squirrel says.

“We have many healers here,” Hector points out, “but no Summoners.”

“Well let’s not bank on that,” Pym says, pressing her lips together before continuing, “Jonah was a great healer. It would be useful to have him around again if this all works out.”

It’s a painful reminder that this does still all have to work out. That they still have to convince the leaders that they are worthy of their help. Or a chance at it. That what Guinevere has created is something worth continuing, this blend of human and Fey. He has seen no evidence of human here, nor have there been rumors that humans are in this group. It’s just Fey. That divide would be difficult to heal under any circumstance. But fighting for Guinevere means joining the side of the Fey who put them in this position. He cannot blame anyone for having second thoughts about doing it. It also puts Hector in a strange positions, it stains him even if he decides to stay and they make it out of here with their lives.

Squirrel nudges him with his shoulder, bringing Lancelot back into the present and he looks over at the boy.

  
“It’ll work out,” he says.

Lancelot doesn’t know how he can still have such faith, but he nods anyway.

“Come to the side,” Hector says and he helps Squirrel move to the side as Hector turns the Fire. The tent gets hotter quickly as he slides the tray with the dough inside. Water has been added and he covers it with some kind of metal lid, trapping the steam inside, “it’s the heat,” he says, catching Lancelot’s gaze.

Lancelot nods, though he doesn’t remember. Hector gives him a sympathetic look and straightens up. Despite how comfortable he feels around Hector, Lancelot doesn’t allow himself to meditate on the sensations or risk slipping into the memories. He can’t. Those memories will be there. However comfortable he feels, he risks the memories overwhelming him and taking him out of commission. He trusts Hector more than he should, he’s willing to take that risk with himself and the only living relative he’s found.

He won’t leave Pym and Squirrel without his protection.

It doesn’t take long before Hector pulls out the tray and takes back his Fire. When he lifts the covering off, inside are small rounds with slashes down the center. The top is brown and bubbled, the sides of the slashes are pulled back as the bread has puffed up. Squirrel and Pym both watch his reaction. He would like to say that he’s in control of himself as he looks at them, but when his fingers reach out he’s aware of the tremor.

“I haven’t smelled bread like this,” Pym says.

“It’s hard to get the heat where it has to be,” Hector says, picking up one and handing it to Lancelot.

He wraps Pym and Squirrel’s in cloths but they still handle them gingerly. It’s not as heavy as Lancelot would have thought, but there’s more substance to it than the light folds of the Sky Folk’s bread. He hesitates only a moment before he tries it.

The taste is sour but its not unpleasant. It’s actually very good. He can’t help but let his eyes close and remember the sensation of his mother teaching them how to do this. Sliding the rounds into the Fire. The biggest loaves always went into the pit at the center of the houses, the others would bake in the smaller ones in the center of the floor. He remembers slashing the tops. Once he remembers slashing their initials in so that they could all find their loaves. It had made his mother laugh and so he kept doing it.

He opens his eyes before the memories overwhelm him. Much to his embarrassment, he can see they’re wet and his throat is tight, though he can shove the emotions away this time. Pym settles herself next to him, giving him something else to focus on as he grips the bread. He looks over at Hector whose watching him carefully.

“We used to carve our initials into it,” he says.

Hector nods to the loaf and Lancelot is surprised to see the L dragged on his, something he hadn’t noticed before.

It’s strange to think of the man in front of him and how he has known him as Lancelot this entire time. Like some part of him has been preserved, some part was worth carrying all these years. Amidst all these atrocities. Someone knew who he truly was the entire time. Maybe there are memories to uncover in the back corners of his mind, things that he shouldn’t fear like he does. He wonders at the man he could have become if he found his way to this place somehow. If he grew here with Hecto. He has stopped believing in how things are ‘meant’ to be, but maybe there is something in that.

There’s a gentle tap on the ground and Hector moves as Pym tenses. Lancelot looks up as Jonah steps in. Hector nods and lets him in and it only makes Pym tense further.

“Good morning,” he says, “i trust you all slept well?”

“Fine,” she says.

Something frustrated shows on Jonah’s face and it’s odd to see the similarities of Pym’s expressions reflected there. But there’s a guilt on Jonah’s face that is a sharp contrast to the anger on Pym’s features. He comes over to the fire like this is something he’s done before many times and takes the food that Hector offers him.

“I came by to talk about how we move forward,” he says, “we have a mutual interest in all of us surviving. And given what we’ve seen recently from the church, it’s going to be harder if we’re apart,” he sighs, “but it’s not as simple as that.”

“So what do we need to do to make it simple?” Pym questions, bristling as though their issues are not ones she’s struggled with. Jonah glances around, “we’re all family here,” Pym reminds him.

“It’s the Monk and your human queen,” he says, “these aren’t things the Fey here trust.”

“But they trust you,” she points out.

“Can you excuse us for a moment?”

The all turn as Lancelot sets the bread aside. Pym looks at him but he knows they need to discuss things. Squirrel goes to move and he nods towards a corner of the tent. It’s too wet to bring him outside, but he figures he can grab him if he needs to. What he does need to do is talk to Pym away from her uncle. She follows him outside with an eye roll before either of them can even grab a cloak. The platform isn’t big enough for either of them to pace as they normally would, but it gives them some room. And the thinness of the tent gives them some privacy, though not as much as he wishes.

“We need them,” he reminds her.

“I know that,” she retorts, making it sound as though this is something new. Some argument he’s intent on having, “but if they’re willing to follow him, Guinevere shouldn’t be a problem.”

“She’s human,” he points out.

“So what?” She snaps, “like Nimue was a monster? You would think considering we’re almost extinct, they would get past these ridiculous prejudices. And you—“

“Killed most of their families,” he cuts in, “so did the Church and Cumber’s men. This isn’t prejudice, it’s hurt.”

“Guinevere isn’t her father,” she says.

“They don’t know Guinevere,” he says, “but they see the thing that took their families from them and forced them to this place. They need to be convinced,” she nods, “you need to convince them.”

That seems to shock her.

“Me?”

“You’re the Summoner,” he points out, “you’ve brought more people together than you know. You need to do it again,” he says, “you can’t do that if you’re thinking about killing your uncle.”

She clamps her lips together so tightly they go pale and he sees her Fingers shift under the blush that stains her skin. Evidently the Hidden don’t like being embarrassed either. Instead of reaching for the prayer beads, she folds her arms and looks up at him.

“He deserves worse,” she says.

“That won’t help,” he says.

“It might!”

“Pym.”

She makes a noise of disgust at her name or perhaps at the tone he takes. But they both know that he’s right. Killing him won’t do anything and though, in his heart, he thinks Pym isn’t the killing type. He can’t exactly find fault with her mindset either. He thinks if any of his other family had survived, he might want to do the same. He’s not sure. It’s not something he has the opportunity to struggle with. If Hector hurt him, he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t know if as a child he accepted his brother, but he knows that he saved him. That both of them seem to want the bond back or to figure out a new one.

“I just cannot believe he’s alive and here, of all places,” she says, “when the Hidden said I had to stop running away, I thought it was just from them,” she looks away, “I know you think I should forgive him but—“ she trails off, looking at him.

“I said to stop yelling at him,” he says, “your anger is making your Fingers show,” he adds. Pym shudders, “is that bad?”

“It’s uncomfortable,” she says, “it’s like my emotions are showing,” she explains.

“Your emotions were always plain,” he points out, “you don’t hide them well.”

“That’s only to you,” she says. He raises his eyebrows, “mostly to you,” she corrects, “you read me better than anyone else. Most of the time people don’t read me like that.”

“They’ll want to now, more than ever.”

The thought makes her shiver, or maybe that’s the cold. He didn’t think through dragging her out here, he just knew that if they stayed there she was going to argue more with her uncle and they would all be in trouble. Even though the snow has stopped he’s aware that it’s cold out. But instead of stepping closer, Pym steps back and looks away.

“I’m not a good leader,” she says, “I don’t know how to be the kind of Summoner we need,” she finally glances at him, reminding him of a doe that is about to run, should he make any noise, “I don’t know how to do this.”

She glances away and then back at him again and he realizes she’s not just speaking off the cuff, she’s admitting something. The fear of saying the wrong thing strikes him, along with how badly he doesn’t want to do that. And how badly he doses to want anyone else to do it, though he knows that their friends would be better suited to the task. It’s an odd, almost primal feeling that twists in him, though he does his best to shove it aside.

“You’ve been doing it,” he says, “ever since you left the village. You need to trust in yourself, as all of us do. Just because the Hidden couldn’t see it before Nimue joined them doesn’t mean the rest of us are as blind.”

She hesitates for a moment before nodding as his words roll in her head.

“You sound like Kaze,” she remarks.

“To be fair, you are acting like Guinevere,” he points out,

That makes her laugh, louder than she means to. She claps her hand over her mouth and shakes her head.

“You’re right,” she says, “but this is serious, don’t make me laugh.”

He shrugs unapologetically. If the Hidden have a problem with him making her laugh, then they will have to compromise on it because it’s not something he intends to stop doing. She takes a few more breaths, looking out at the snow and then looks back at the tent. As though she would rather stand out on the platform in the cold than be back in the warmth.

“Are you alright with the bread and everything?” She asks.

“Not really,” he admits, “it’s overwhelming.”

She nods and shoves her hand into her pocket, pulling out the tin of salve she gave him in the market. Considering how much had been left behind in their dash to get away from Morgana and Tristain’s Fire, he’s surprised to see it.

“I thought you might need it back at the village but I forgot to give it to you. Sorry,” she adds quickly, “but it may help here if things are still overwhelming.”

It amazes him that she brought it, that if she thought to punish him with his deeds she still didn’t want to hurt him. It’s a kindness he never would have expected a few months ago, even now it catches him off guard. Though it’s Pym and she constantly surprises him, even though they both care deeply for one another.

“Thank you,” he says, “I need to keep my wits about me here.”

“I understand,” she says “at least you have my scent to fall back on.”

He nods, wondering if that’s something the other Ash Folk did with the people they were closest to and realizing that it might be something Hector knows. With a final longing glance at the quiet snow, she turns to go into the tent and he catches her wrist and pulls her closer, lowering his voice.

“Say you feel sick and we’ll come back out here,” he says, “if you need to escape.”

“They’ll think I’m with child,” she points out. He shrugs, “that’s not a bad idea. I told Hector we got married on the boat back from the island. I think he believed me.”

He thinks of laying in the hammock talking their importance to one another and nods. There’s enough truth in it that she wasn’t entirely lying. Perhaps that’s the key to pulling this off, having enough truth that it’s not entirely a lie. It’s helpful going forward. Though there’s no reason for it, he wraps his arms around her and she gratefully leans into his chest.

“This is such a mess,” she says.

“It is,” he agrees.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

He nods at the warm feeling that spreads through him at the words. She looks truly regretful when she pulls back and smiles up at him and he realizes it’s a nice thing to see. Her smiling up at him with his arms around her. She looks like she feels better when she steps back and pushes her hair behind her ears.

“Let’s go convince them,” she says, taking his hand.

He nods and follows her back into the tent, ignoring the odd chill that lingers when she departs his arms and focusing instead on the feel of their hands joined together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re enjoying the story or have feedback, please let me know! Thank you to everyone who commented/kudosed/messaged me after last chapter. See you in the next one!


	107. Spark: Part 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a discussion that involves content of a sexual nature.

It’s after explaining everything that she lets herself acknowledge Lancelot’s words about letting them think she’s with child.

She doesn’t know why it turns over in her head like a wheel. He’s good with children. They’ve always had a value to him, if she considers him letting them go even during his darkest times. But she knows he’s good with them in a way she wouldn’t have expected. She still remembers the way that the all gave their most precious toys to him that night they slept out with Goliath. Even Bors who has always been afraid of everything seems to find bravery, if only to impress Lancelot. An odd wave of longing hits her as she lets her uncle think about what she’s said about how they cameo Guinevere and how Lancelot has become a valued member of their group. Being homesick was never something she thought she would feel again.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m thinking about Bors and everyone,” she says, “I miss them.”

Lancelot nods and Pym wonders if he misses them too. Most of them, they’ve known nearly the same length of time. It’s strange, Hector and Jonah are from times when they were different people almost. She focuses on her uncle. Jonah left before Bors was anything more than a babe, it seems he doesn’t recognize the name.

“Evaine’s son,” she explains.

Hector chokes on his tea.

“Evaine of Benoic?” He says. Pym nods. Lancelot looks at him curiously, “we’re related to them.”

“What?!”

Hector looks at Lancelot who stares back at him blankly and then confused.

“How?”

“Distantly,” he says, “but our mother knew her. Said they were like sisters,” he explains.

“She’s been in the village for as long as I’ve known her,” Pym says.

“This was before that,” Jonah says. They look at him, “she’s Sky Folk but not purely. The boy’s father?”

“Bors’ father isn’t Sky Folk,” Squirrel chimes up, glaring at them and daring them to say anything about the fact. Pym smiles at his bravery in defending his friend before turning back to them, “but Bors has Sky Folk powers, he’d probably smell like one.”

“So you’re cousins with Bors,” she says. Hector nods.

“Distantly but yes,” he says.

The thought almost makes her smile, but she pushes it aside. It’s a distant relation, but when she thinks of how Bors has wormed his way it into Lancelot’s heart—and vice versa—there’s an almost poetic connection between them. The idea that their mothers were friends, that someone else is connected to this complicated family tree makes her almost smile. If not for the painful reminder of how it all ended before any of them could learn the truth.

“Do you have a family here?” She asks Jonah.

“No,” he says quickly.

Pym frowns, not sure why she almost assumed that he would have just moved on. What he did was horrible, the consequences fell on them. But she also knows that wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been lied to. She ignores the anger that churns in her stomach, she knows that’s not hers. The Hidden are angry with him. And so is she, but their anger doesn’t have the hurt that hers does. That makes it easier to separate.

“I thought you would have,” she says.

“I loved Lenore,” he says simply, but the pain that lingers there echoes, “despite what happened between us.”

“Did you love Nimue?” She asks.

“I tried to,” he says. Pym fights to keep her expression neutral, “but the power she had—“

“She didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Pym says.

“You didn’t live with her,” Jonah tells her, “what you know isn’t the whole story.”

Pym opens her mouth to retort and Lancelot coughs. It’s a slip up she knows isn’t on purpose but it gives her enough to realize that she’s almost up out of her chair. What she’s planning to do, she has no idea. But she forces herself back. She reminds herself that she was afraid of the Hidden even before Jonah left, that she just had Nimue to shelter her. She grips the beads and takes a moment before looking at Jonah.

“Then tell me,” she says.

So he does.

The extent of Nimue’s powers shocks her. She knew that she was powerful, but what he describes makes her wonder how she could not know how powerful she was. The slip ups, the broken things, how many nights Jonah sat trying to figure out a way to help only to be thwarted by the Hidden and Nimue’s Druid powers. How sad Lenore was, how she was afraid as well. It makes Pym desperately sad for Nimue and what hell she went through. It also makes her want to leave and go straight to Merlin and kill him. 

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” She says.

“She was a babe,” Jonah says, “and a child. It was no fault of hers.”

Pym nods but the queasy feeling is making it difficult. She didn’t think this would turn to feeling things like sympathy for a man she’s disliked for most of her life. Someone whose actions she’s had to bear the consequences of. But what he’s saying makes her feel bad for him, like she can see him for the weary, almost broken man that he is.

“She did learn to control it,” she says, “she became very powerful. She lead us all to safety after the Paladins attacked. She and Morgana opened the doors to Avalon,” she hesitates one moment before continuing, “she had the Sword of Power before she died.”

Hector and Jonah go silent and then look at her with that hungry expression that always seems to come across men’s faces when the Sword is brought up.

“She chose a successor who wields the Sword now,”. She says.

“Who?”

“His name is Arthur, he’s a good and honorable man,” Lancelot says, “we’ve fought together many times.”

“Lancelot did try to kill him first,” Pym says, “now they fight alongside each other.”

Jonah nods and looks thoughtful at what she’s said, but not entirely trusting of it. She forgets when she thinks of him as the one who ran away that Jonah is no fool. It shouldn’t be a surprise when he asks the next question.

“Who else is with you?”

“A good number of Fey fighters. Sir Gawain is among them,” she says, “he held the port almost single handedly.”

“And the other Ash Fey?” Jonah asks.

Pym fights the urge to curse. She should have known if they were spying on them, they would have seen Tristain’s Fire. Even people not spying on them probably saw that. She sees Hector and Lancelot exchange looks, but there’s no malice in them. Relief gives her the strength to keep speaking.

“Kaze won her loyalty temporarily, but she’s not entirely with us. Yet,” she looks at Hector, “another Ash Folk may help convince her,” she says, “she only just started making Fire without needing the fuel.”

“She’s progressed quickly,” Hector remarks.

“So have you,” Pym says.

“No, I’ve been training in secret,” Hector says, “I’ve been up in the trees for most of my time here, there wasn’t any other option. But I haven’t been watched like you two.”

It’s a reminder that Hector has been allowed to grow up in a way that Lancelot and Tristain are just getting the opportunity to do. Hector’s mature, she can see it in his reactions to Lancelot. His understanding and sympathy is a sharp contract to Tristain’s wild and petulant fury. Jonah doesn’t seem angry about this and Hector only offers a smile towards him that gets an affection and exasperated sigh. There’s a respect that Pym hasn’t seen evidence of with Tristain and Lancelot’s leaders. Hector’s been a member of society, not a wild dog.

“Being in the trees like that must have been difficult,” Pym offers.

“It was, but I wanted to help as I could,” he says.

“And we’re grateful for what you did all these years,” Jonah tells them, “you saved many lives.”

The conversation is more about getting to know each other, almost as family. But when Jonah departs back to his healing duties, Pym is almost sorry for him to go. But at the same time she’s grateful he’s gone. It gives her a chance to think on what he’s said. And she does need to think on it. It and everything else that’s happening. 

“I need to check on Goliath,” Lancelot says.

“Would you like to meet the other little ones?” Hector offers.

“Yeah!” Squirrel says.

“Be careful,” Pym calls after all of them.

She bends down to examine the trunk of Sky Folk possessions but doesn’t get terribly far before she finds a gold wedding band. Something that would have been prized and guarded. The circlet is heavy in her hands, something passed down the generations. She never expected to wear one and after everything, she was always afraid to. That perhaps the people in her family were just cursed to be terrible, miserable spouses. Now she knows it’s not that simple. The weight of the band doesn’t feel terrifying.

She doesn’t hate being thought of as married.

It’s fake, but the though is still one that makes her drop the ring and close the chest. Every time she thinks about it, something settles in her chest that isn’t unpleasant. It shouldn’t be happening. Before she can truly think about it, she finds herself heading down to the horses. Lancelot sees her and is momentarily surprised before seemingly understanding that she needs to talk.

“What’s wrong?” He asks and she wishes that it wasn’t such a direct question.

“I’m having trouble with them thinking I’m your wife,” she says.

“We can tell them,” he offers.

“No, that’s not the trouble,” she says, “I don’t hate being called it as much as I think I should.”

He looks at her quietly, but she can see his confusion. Her face gets hotter, if possible and she looks around as though something out there can save her. Or eat her. Or take back the words she’s said. Lancelot looks up at her in confusion and she has to fight the urge to fidget.

“You said you had no interest in marriage.”

“I didn’t,” she says, “but hearing Jonah, I thought that he would have moved on. Or that he didn’t love Lenore like he says he did,” she chews her lip, “they weren’t in love when they got married but they wouldn’t have been the first to develop feelings for each other after the fact. But she didn’t. I was always scared of being married to someone I didn’t like.”

“Like with Aaron,” he says.

She nods.

“But Jonah never moved on,” Pym says. Lancelot looks at her, “that’s—“ she shakes her head, “it’s a sad thing.”

  
“That he didn’t move on?” He asks.

“That his heart got broken and he just stayed that way,” she admits. Lancelot looks at her blankly and she can’t blame him for his confusion, “have you ever had your heart broken? Romantically?”

“I’ve never been involved romantically with anyone,” he says.

She nods, she had guessed as much. Though he doesn’t blush nearly as hard as she would expect when the topic turns to romantic relationships. It’s not as though it’s something that’s come up. She knows that it’s nothing either of them have a great wealth of experience with. And of the experiences she has had, they’ve been complicated and heartbreaking. Even if the wounds are closer to healing than she thinks they should be.

“I liked Dof,” she says. “A lot. Maybe I could have loved him if we had the chance,” he nods, “I don’t know. It hurt when he died, though I didn’t really have time to think about it until later.”

The grief that made her isolate herself was some lethal combination of Nimue, Dof and everyone else. As if she had been running and surviving and could finally feel all the grief she had been pushing down. Not that she had much say in the matter. She can’t pretend the sight of Lancelot after the Paladins had him didn’t make her think of Dof, though somehow he survived. She glances up at Lancelot, half expecting him to be covered in blood or dead. But he’s just watching her, listening to her.

“I don’t want to just think of what could have been,” she admits. Lancelot keeps looking at her and she feels the heat climb up her face, “this doesn’t feel like something we should be talking about,” she blurts out. He gives her a puzzled look, “you are very new to not being a holy man. It feels wrong,” she admits.

“We talk about everything,” he says.

“Yes but not this,” she says. His confusion grows, “talking about romantic or sexual things, it feels like taking advantage of you. You’re so—“ she fumbles for the right word, “new. To everything, to understanding what you want.”

He looks at her blankly.

“Talking about romantic things like that and about not hating being called your wife is strange,” she stammers out, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”  
  
“I’m alright,” he says, “I’ve broken my vows.”

“That doesn’t mean you have experience. Or any of that.”

“Any of what?”

“Sexual things.”

He considers her words for a moment and then folds his legs, sitting down. She looks at him before coming over and sitting down opposite him, drawing her cloak around her. He doesn’t seem embarrassed, if anything he seems curious at what she’s asking. Pym has to think about how to phrase things gently, trying very much to focus on him and all of his intricacies.

“Do you—feel things? Sexually?” She asks, “or is there any touching you like?”

“When we hug,” he says, “and when you touch my scars.”  
  
“Okay,” she says, chewing her lower lip, “do those things ever make you—“ she motions to his lap, “hard there?”

He looks at her blankly for a moment and she wishes desperately that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. It’s not a conversation she ever thought she would have, let alone with him looking at her like that. After a moment, he shakes his head. She nods to let him know that it’s alright. A familiar look of frustration crosses his face and he hesitates a moment before speaking.

“That wasn’t allowed,” he says.

“It’s not something you can control,” she points out.

“We learn to,” he says, “and to punish ourselves if it doesn’t work.”

Her stomach twists at the thought of the scars on his back and it wanders to the big ones, the ones inflicted by someone else. She was told the dangers to her reputation, a switch was used once to discourage her but it wasn’t scarring. Not like that. It’s even crueler when she thinks about the things the Paladins would do to women before they were burned. And they had to be burned afterwards. That was very intentional.

“When the Paladins would force themselves on Fey women they would kill them afterwards. They said they didn’t want more Fey in the world.”

He doesn’t say anything but his silence is enough. She can imagine that maybe one day they would want him to create another Ash Fey, one who could track, but that would be it. It’s a terrible thought. One that has never sat well with her. She thinks about Aaron and whoever she married, how the expectation would be that she procreate and if she got lucky, that she give her husband sons to carry on his family name. It’s a horrible thought to think of being punished for what you want or being forced to procreate with someone you didn’t love. But it’s a reality of life. Families were rarely made on love and hers had always been expected to be someone who could raise her family’s standing, if her family could cobble together a dowery.

“It doesn’t seem right to be punished for something natural like that,” she admits. Lancelot says nothing, “it is natural. You know that right?” he gives no response, “do you still keep yourself—“

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she says. He shifts his weight, almost uncomfortably, “I’m sorry, this is a very strange conversation.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“How do the Fey have it?” He asks.

“They don’t,” she admits, “not really. We’re more told not to do anything until we’re married and that’s usually settled by our parents,” she toys with her fingers, “besides the ‘not doing anything’ is more for girls than boys, even though we’re both supposed to be untouched on our wedding night.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“What happens to women who have sex outside of marriage? In the Fey world? Like Hector and Bors’ mothers?”

“Shunned mostly,” Pym says, “women don’t have the same options that men to when it comes to work so they often wind up begging or worse,” she sees him go tight lipped, “Bors’ mother wasn’t like that, she lived with her parents. He grew up safe,” she explains quickly, “it sounds like Hector was safe as well.”

“I don’t remember Hector’s mother.”

“She may have died having him,” she says. A shadow crosses Lancelot’s face at the idea. Pym remembers being told time and again that having children was her most important job, it was also the job most likely to kill her. But that sacrifice was a noble one, one she should be proud to do. Something else that never sat right with her, “I’m sorry, I don’t know how the Ash Folk thought about childbirth.”

“I don’t either,” he says.

It’s nothing she ever expected to be discussing with a man, let alone a peer. Someone who is close to her own age. It’s not something she ever thought about, though the more she considers it the more she realizes how many times she’s shoved the thoughts from her head. It hasn’t only been with excuses but she can think of a few times that it has been.

“You probably wouldn’t,” she says, “men aren’t involved that usually. At least with the Folk I know. Definitely not with the humans I know. It’s not somewhere men are allowed.”

“The Church said the pain was punishment for taking the Apple,” he says, “Original Sin.”

Pym winces.

“We think it’s just because of how we’re made,” she says, “it’s how we can walk upright. It doesn’t make childbearing easy,” she crosses her arms, “it’s a terrible thing to think it’s a punishment. Enough women die doing it.”

It’s a reminder of what he believes. How his Church views women, even if he’s not a part of it. It reminds her of Aaron’s words. If she was a good Christian wife, if she bore him children, would he think she deserved to die because someone had eaten an apple they weren’t supposed to? It makes the beads in her pocket feel heavier. A further reminder that this is something anyone Lancelot is with will have to reconcile. She glances out of the corner of her eye towards him, aware she’s insulted something he holds dear but he doesn’t seem to be upset by it.

“They aren’t right about everything,” he says, “including that.”

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” She asks.

“You asked me if I thought you were going to hell,” he says. The tightness in her chest is back, “I didn’t answer you. But I don’t think you would have. That was decided by a man, not by God.”

It shouldn’t make her feel better to hear such things. She knows she isn’t perfect, that the Paladins would think she was going to hell. But she knows they would be wrong if they thought that just being a Fey condemned her to such a thing. She looks at Lancelot.

“Do you have any idea what you would want from a wife?”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“I’m not experienced,” he agrees, “but I’m not a child,” she opens her mouth but he shakes his head and she closes it, “I may never be a proper Fey man.”

“I know that,” he gives her a frustrated look but she pushes on, unwilling to let him think anything else, “being a ‘proper’ Fey man doesn’t make you better or more desirable.”

“What do you want?”  
  
“I don’t know,” she says helplessly, wondering why she feels as though she might start to cry, “I thought I did but it’s not so simple.”

He’s quiet and she thinks he might be about to agree that this isn’t something they should talk about. It makes her be silent, for long enough that he looks concerned and moves towards her. She doesn’t know why she jumps to her feet like she’s been burned but it’s enough to make him get up as well. Slower, like he doesn’t want to scare her off. But it has the opposite effect, she cannot handle him being caring when she’s got all of these knots in her stomach.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t something we should be talking about. I think I’ve just confused us both,” she says.

“Pym,” he starts.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, “I have to go.”

She ignores the shame and picks up her dress, hurrying back towards the trees, ignoring the call of her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented/kudosed. I appreciate it so much! Please let me know your thoughts! Onwards!


	108. Spark: Part 25

He takes off after her.

She’s not hard to catch.

She wouldn’t be under most circumstances but especially not now. She seems surprised when he appears in front of her and then almost outraged. It makes him doubt if he was meant to come after her at all. But the times she’s run, it’s always resulted in distance between them. Distance they cannot afford and he doesn’t want. Not now. Not after that conversation. She opens her mouth as if to speak and the clamps her lips shut, tilting her head up to look at him. It feels as though she’s challenging him and in many was, she is. He ignores any doubts and focuses on her.

“We can talk about this,” he repeats, “i’m not a child.”

“I know that,” she says.

“Do you believe it?” He questions and she looks away, “if you’re confused about being with me—“ she goes bright red and he knows thats what this is, “talk to me.”

“I—“

“I know you can,” he cuts in, “you do, after.”

Calling her out so boldly makes her go even redder. He doesn’t understand why she’s started thinking this way or when or what it’s supposed to mean. The subject of them in this light is only brought up by people’s assumptions. He’s used to letting people make their own narratives about him, even now it’s a hard habit to break. And Pym has dismissed them all as ridiculous or things she doesn’t care about. He doesn’t understand what is happening and the need to ask things of her and to salvage their friendship churn together. Threaten to make him be sick. But he pushes past it, though it helps him understand why she would want to run from the conversation. They cannot be so caught up in handling the other with care that they run. He’s sure of that. The fact that she isn’t trying to run at the moment makes him think she knows it too.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says.

“I don’t either.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“It’s on your mind,” he says. She looks down, the both know that’s true. But he half expects her to deny it and run, “you’re not making me uncomfortable. I just don’t understand, in the way you’re talking about it.”

“I know,” she says and he isn’t sure if the frustration is at him, herself or the situation. But when she looks at him, the frustration softens, “I didn’t think when I started talking,” she tucks her arms around herself and he reaches for his cloak, “I’m not cold,” she says.

She glances around like she’s hopeful that someone will come and end this conversation, but the only ones around them are the horses. And Goliath just gives a huff and flicks his ears as though to listen in on what they are saying. She sighs and shakes her head as if she hoped the horse would be on her side and save her from continuing it. Lancelot has to fight the instinct to let her run from it. If things appear this uncomfortable between them, they will be caught in the lie before they have gotten the group of Fey on their side. There is every reason and need to have the conversation.

Except that Pym doesn’t fully seem to want to have it and Lancelot doesn’t like making her do things she doesn’t want to. Even when there’s a good, logical reason to do it.

“Pym—“

“There was a wedding ring in the trunk of Sky Folk things Hector had,” she says, “and when I was holding it, I tried to imagine myself married and I wasn’t as afraid as I usually feel when I think of it,” she explains, “and then I thought about what Jonah was saying and how he wasn’t a perfect husband, but he tried to be a good one. And I realized so much of it was me being afraid I was as like him as I thought I might be. That made me wonder how much is me being afraid to be like that in general.”

Lancelot can understand her fears. Thinking about the things they talked about makes his back sting in a way that it hasn’t in some time. It makes his fingers itch to get his prayer beads and perhaps the flog even. He knows that sharing sleeping quarters with her is tempting sin, but it’s been a very long time since that’s been a sin he’s had to think about. Or care about. Putting that aside is second nature, since he’s been doing it since he was a boy. It’s not as if he’s the only Paladin to be chaste, but he’s in the minority. They both know it. With him the threat of bringing new Fey into the world has always been there. Father told him so many times he was born of sin, it barely needed to be said that if he were to father children they would be born of sin as well. Though he’s sure eventually they would have wanted him to sire at least one to give them the advantage if he should die. Or they would if the Pope allowed it. But the conversation had come up.

“And us?” He prods, “does that scare you?”

“Of course if does,” she says, “whatever my feelings, look at what happened to Nimue and Arthur—or Arthur and Guinevere. I couldn’t bare to lose you like that. And you’re—“ she hesitates, “you’re so new to knowing what you want. Before I was sure you didn’t.”

It seems to be his turn to be called out. She’s right though. It is new. Not as new as it was but new none the less. Running after her, taking her to the village, not answering her questions—all of it is a choice. His choice. It’s not just parroting back what he knows she wants to hear or wants him to do. Even the clothes he wears are a sign of his choices, something that would have been unfathomable a few months ago. He is new to knowing what he wants and sometimes even listening to that desire makes his back itch with the reminder of it being a sin. But he knows that it isn’t, that the instinct to look at it as one was beaten and twisted into him. That is the unnatural thing. Not him.

“I know we want the same things when it comes to us.”

“You don’t,” she says and looks almost wild again. Like she’s going to run.

“Neither of us wants to lose each other,” he corrects, “do we agree on that?”

It doesn’t take away the wild look but she doesn’t run. She nods, though she looks in his face as though searching for answers there. Belatedly he realizes she’s trying to see if he’s being truthful or parroting her words back. Though it makes him frustrated to realize, it also makes it clear how much she means those words., How terrifying this actually is to speak about. It’s a conversation they cannot afford to wait to have or to be interrupted, though it’s just them and the horses at the moment. He doesn’t know why this conversation should be frightening, but it’s not something he has experience with. She’s right, she’s had her heart broken. Up until recently, he would say that his heart was more or less dead.

“We need to talk about this,” he says, almost not recognizing the plea in his voice.

Ωs``

“I-I know,” she says, stumbling over the agreement, “I don’t even know why I brought this up.”

He motions her over to where they were sitting, not fully positioning himself behind her but not leading her either. She goes, thankfully. He’s not sure why she brought it up either, but he’s glad that she did. Better this kind of conversation than letting the awkwardness build between them further. After what they’ve just been through, he’s not sure he could bear her pushing him away again. No more than she could have after he was taken by the Church. She perches there looking more like a bird about to take flight than he wishes and he settles down, trying to convey that he’s not a threat. At the end of the day they want the same things.

“You almost died,” he says, “and the Hidden are more connected to you now. They said not to run away.”

“From them,” she says.

“They may push you to face other fears,” he says. A new thought occurs to him, one that he knows is foolish. But after what they’ve just seen in the village, may not be so foolish after all, “does some part of you fear me?”  
  
“No, of course not,” she says quickly.

“Does loving me?”

She opens her mouth and then closes it. The time it takes her to gather her thoughts speaks volumes. The color on her cheeks gets worse. It reminds him of when she struggled to acknowledge them as friends and then as family. He cannot say that it’s a surprising thing. Especially not with what they’ve just seen back in her village. How easily she could have wound up as one of the burned skeletons or bodies on the ground. The thought makes him feel sick. Sicker than the thought of the people she cared about who are now dead. Though that thought is sickening as well. The thought of all the lives he’s cut short makes him feel ill. It makes him think of his father, the man who sired him. Who he thought was a monster for what he did on the beach. If deeds make you a monster, than Lancelot is one a thousand times over.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says.

“You’ve been afraid of your feelings for me before,” he points out.

“I know,” she agrees quietly.

“If they’ve changed—“  
  
“I didn’t say they changed,” she cuts in, “that band and everything just made me think this foolish thing,” she dismisses, but he sees the way she grips her skirt. It’s not a lie but it’s not the entire truth, “I thought I wouldn’t have a problem pretending because it’s not as if I cared about my reputation here,” she glances at him, “but I think it’s that and it’s because it’s you.”

“You didn’t consider me as a husband,” he says.

  
Her face goes bright red.

“Did you consider me as a wife?” She asks.

“I didn’t consider anyone in that way,” he says. She nods, he cannot figure out if that is the right thing to say or not. But it is the truth, “I wouldn’t trade our relationship to marry someone else,” he says.

“I wouldn’t either,” she agrees quickly, “that’s why I didn’t have a problem with what people said when it came to us sharing a bed.”

“So we agree on that,” he says.

She looks surprised for a moment before biting down on the smile he can see starting to form. It’s a relief, even if she tries to stamp it out given the seriousness of the conversation. But the smile is an indication he’s done something right in this. It makes him relax, if only just. Making her feel better helps, in ways that he cannot fully understand. But it does. Her feeling alright matters very much. More than him, but he knows in this case she’ll know if he’s just focusing on what she wants.

“I didn’t mean we don’t agree on things,” she says, “do you know what you would want from a wife?” She asks, “you would have choices,” she continues, “even with what you’ve done. You’re a powerful Fey.”

Something cold hits him at what he thinks she’s proposing.

“Didn’t we say we didn’t want to lose each other?”

“Yes but—“ he watches her blush, “men usually want to explore.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t know that,” she says. He gives her a plain look. She sighs, “I don’t know if that’s you or your beliefs—“

“I don’t want to explore things with anyone else,” he says.

She seems as though she’s going to argue but he watches her stiffen slightly at his words. He’s a physical person, it’s been trained into him. But there’s a stark difference between the kind of physical contact he has with Kaze or Tristain or any of his peers and the kind of contact he has with Pym. She’s the only one whose touch he seeks out. What she does with his scars isn’t sexual, they both know that. But it’s the closest thing he’s sought out to a touch that isn’t punishing. It stops short of being pleasure, he wouldn’t call it that. But it’s not punishing or harming. It makes him feel better in a way that few things do.

“It’s not that simple,” she says, “women don’t explore without being considered ruined. They don’t marry without being someone else’s property.”

There’s a pain in her voice that he understands more than he thinks she realizes. He knows what it feels like to be considered ruined, to be considered someone else’s property. He’s spent most of his life as some combination of son and sniffing dog for Father. It’s not as simple as being one or the other, no matter how much he wishes that it was.

“It wouldn’t be like that,” he says, “and you’re a Summoner.”

“Barely. Not to mention, you follow a religion that thinks I’m the originator of sin,” she looks down, “if it did—if something happened. If it ended in children, in daughters, that’s not something I would want them being told they had to believe.”

How women are viewed by his religion has never been something he’s had a problem with, though he can see he should have. Looking back he can see that he came from a culture that followed women into the twisted world of the Paladins where women were a foreign, alien thing. Nothing was worse to the Paladins than a Fey woman. But if Squirrel had woken his heart and soul from their twisted slumber, Pym had kept them alive.

“That’s not something I believe anymore,” he says, “or would teach them.”

He hates that she looks at him with doubt, that she thinks his beliefs would color or complicate how he views her. It’s not a way he’s seen her look at him in a long time. Probably not since the first boat ride. He has the gift of inexperience, he knows that he wants to be around her. He knows that he wants to protect her and that she doesn’t want to be protected from him. He’s never been in a position to have his heart possessed and broken in the way that has her looking like she does. In many ways, this is simple for him. He has no interest in being around anyone else in the way she’s speaking about and the idea of being around her like that isn’t one he hates. Or feels ashamed about. But he knows that he’s not the one who will bear the repercussions. The Fey seem to make allowances for their men that they don’t for their women.

Much like the man bloods.

Much like the Church.

“That’s a good thing to know,” she says finally and he cannot tell if that is a good or a bad thing in the context of what they are discussing.

“I wouldn’t force any of my belief on anyone,” he says.

“I know, Lancelot. But wouldn’t it be easier if you could be with someone who believes like you do?”

“It would be for you as well,” he points out. She faintly smiles, “you don’t do the easy thing when it comes to this.”

“You’re right,” she looks at her fingertips for a moment, running her thumb over one of the scars, “neither do you.”

He gives her a puzzled look and she ducks her head.

“It would have been easier for you to go back to the Church, or not to try to befriend anyone or be a Squire—or any of this,” she says. She looks up at him, “that’s not easy. But you did it.”

He nods, though at the time it felt less like a choice and more like the next thing to do. It was that or die, and she had made it clear that dying and putting Squirrel through more loss was unacceptable. At some point it did shift to being someone they could be around and then it shifted again, to that tentative idea of what he wanted. That idea solicited and took shape, it drove him forward. What they are talking about now, it feels like a compressed version of that.

He thinks of Guinevere telling him to think of a life beyond war.

He thinks of Pym’s sadness at the idea of being left behind.

He wonders how he didn’t see the two as being connect.

Something shifts at the realization though he’s not sure what. He’s confused but it’s not in an unpleasant way. Pym glances around again but the wild look has left her eyes. She seems calmer, like some weight has been lifted off of her. He can’t explain it, but it seems as though they have both felt the shift.

“It shouldn’t be a sin,” she says finally. He looks at her curiously, “if it was something—I wouldn’t want it to be a way you punished yourself,” she looks at him, “I would want you to tell me if it was.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” he says.

“Good,” she says, “you should think about what you want,” he nods, “I should too.”

“We can talk about this again,” he tells her, “whenever.”

“It’s a miracle we weren’t interrupted,” she says with a hesitant smile. He nods his agreement, “I’m sorry if this complicated things.”

“I’d rather we talked,” he offers.

She looks at him quietly for a moment and then nods.

“I’m sorry I ran,” she says.

“Thank you for stopping.”

She nods.

“I forget how fast you are sometimes,” she admits, “but I’m glad you came after me.”

He shifts slightly closer and she doesn’t pull away. He’s not sure what the discussion will mean, how it will change things. He knows it’s given him things to think about, things he hadn’t considered before. Things he’s not sure if he ever would have considered before. But even with all of that, sitting next to her feels nice. Not awkward. She doesn’t look like she wants to run. She shifts closer to him.

He finds he’s glad he went after her as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented and kudosed the last chapter. I can’t tell you how much I love hearing from you all. See you in the next chapter!


	109. Spark: Part 26

The idea hits her like a bolt of lightening as she thinks about how annoyed and grateful she is for Lancelot coming after her.

“I know how to get them on our side,” she says abruptly, jumping to her feet, “we have to go. Come on.”

He follows without asking for more details as they head back into the trees. She looks around as if expecting them to all be in Hector’s tent but everyone has scattered to take care of their lives. She looks at Lancelot who takes a deep breath, his eyes closing as he goes through the scents.

“Hector and Squirrel are over there. Your uncle is up there with the other leaders.”

“Get them and find me,” she says.

He nods and it’s a testament to how much he trusts her that he turns, despite chasing after her quite desperately a short time ago. She has no plans of running away, but she smiles at him anyway before heading off in the direction he indicated. She shoves the feeling of nervousness aside as she makes her way onto the platform from last night. It’s shocking how much things have changed. They turn to look at her as she steps up onto where they are. If they deem her a threat, it doesn’t show on their faces.

“Hello,” she says. They nod in return, “thank you for letting us have some time to recover after our journey. We’re ready to talk and I have an idea of how we can move forward.”

She doesn’t have to wait long for the rest of them to arrive. She shouldn’t be surprised at the speed of their footsteps. Thankfully, Lancelot manages to keep Squirrel from falling onto the platform and Hector manages to keep Lancelot from accidentally touching anything and setting it ablaze. They look at the brothers and Pym feels the shift in the room, but she doesn’t let it derail what she has to say.

“I’m proposing you send a group to meet with our Queen,” Pym says to them, “speak to her directly, not spy on us. No matter what we prove here, we cannot make the decision to join for you.”

The group trades whispers that sound far too much like the Hidden, but she sees the nods between them. Lancelot stands behind her and the warmth of him is enough to make her stand straighter, even though she has to fight the desire to look at him. She’s not sure if they keep glancing at her or at him, but she meets their eyes every time. Jonah is the one who moves away and motions for Pym to join him. She follows without a backwards glance, joining him closer to the end of the platform.

“It was clever to give them a choice,” he says, “accusing them of spying—“

“They were spying,” she points out, “I wasn’t accusing them of anything. If what they saw didn’t make their minds up, nothing I say is going to.”

“You are not the problem,” Jonah says.

“I’m not separate from them,” she reminds him, glad there’s no lie in that, “especially not from him or our Queen.”

A mild look of frustration crosses his face but he nods and returns to the others. Pym exhales and glances back at Lancelot. Though his eyes are elsewhere, they immediately find hers. As if they share the same mind. He gives her the slightest nod and she takes strength from the gesture, turning as the group looks at them. Jonah speaks again, meeting her eyes though the look in it makes her heart jump.

“That cannot work,” he says, “you can find your way here. It puts us at risk.”

“We didn’t come after you before,” Pym says pointedly.

“You didn’t need us before.”

“We don’t need you now,” she shoots back. None of them look pleased at her response but she cannot take the words back, “you’re starving and dying. The Paladins are becoming desperate because of our victories. We can keep you safe.”

“We’ve managed to evade you and him this entire time.”  
  
“At what cost?” She already knows the answer. But it apparently needs saying, “our Queen would be willing to meet with a delegation or all of you,” she says. They don’t seem convinced and she knows there’s only one card left to play, “and whoever wants peace and safety, they can go to Avalon.”

The whispers are immediate and she knows that if they’ve been spying, they’re aware the mythical place is real. She banked on them not knowing the way. She doesn’t either, not really. But Morgana does. It’s a show of faith. It’s an offering. She cannot speak for Guinevere, but if she is the Summoner then access to Avalon is her territory. And if it shows them they are on the same side, then she’s willing to offer it up.

“None of your humans went there?”

“No,” she says, “just our Fey who wished to go. The rest chose to stay here. Your people can have the same choice.”

Jonah nods, though he looks doubtful. Pym isn’t sure if it’s about her or about Avalon or something else, but he pulls her aside again.

  
“We need to discuss privately,” he says, “you’re sure about Avalon.”

“I was there when it was opened,” she says.

“And you didn’t elect to go?”

She shakes her head. She had chosen to stay before she fully knew what she was agreeing to, but it’s not something she’s regretted. Not even when things have been hard. She’s sure she’ll go there one day, but for now she knows that she belongs here. More than that, she knows she this is where she chooses to be. And the choice is, in many ways, more important than anything else.

“I wanted to be here,” she says.

“I’m glad you are,” Jonah tells her.

Pym nods, unable to say that she’s glad they’ve been reunited. Things are still too complicated, it still hurts to look at him. In a way. Jonah looks over her at Hector and nods to him. Hector leads Squirrel down but Lancelot waits and places her in front of him on the platforms down.

“Avalon?”  
  
“I had to offer something,” she says.

“The choice wasn’t enough?”

She glances back to see if he’s being sarcastic but he looks genuinely curious. She shakes her head and he nods. Even after they’ve done so much, he manages to look mildly annoyed at the negotiations. She can’t blame him for it, she’s frustrated herself that this group will still choose fear over what should be obvious. But she also has to acknowledge she’s horribly biased, that the choice was not so easy until after she had made it.

“Come, you can wait in my tent,” Hector says.

“We can find the way back,” Lancelot points out and Hector smiles.

“I know,” he reminds him and Lancelot turns slightly red, “everyone would feel better if I escorted you. Come.”

They follow him back to his tent where he leaves them with the unspoken request not to leave. She sees Squirrel wavering slightly and guides him over to his bedroll. He goes with a small yawn. She helps him down tucks the eyes around him. He looks past her and smiles at Lancelot.

“Did you have fun with the other children?” He asks. Squirrel nods.

“I’m glad you didn’t kill them,” Squirrel says.

“Get some rest,” Pym cuts in gently, “we don’t know when we might have to leave.”

Squirrel already seems half asleep. Pym knows that’s how he’s always been, he pushes himself. He always wants to run faster. With everything with Lancelot, she knows that they can’t forget Squirrel is still recovering. That his recovery will be longer than hers and that all of it will be frustrating for him. She’s sure almost dying and becoming a proper Summoner will play with her head, but she refuses to let him face what’s coming on his own. She gets up and returns to Lancelot’s side.

“Do you think he’ll be alright to ride back?” She asks, “I barely remember the journey here.”

“Yes,” he says, “and we have more resources. If the horse is painful, we could speak to them about something else.”

“We should have kept the brace.”

He nods but it’s something they can do nothing about. Perhaps she can make something similar, but she knows that the brace that kept him upright and moderately comfortable was the product of both of their work. That wave of homesickness starts in her again and she pushes it back. They’ll be there soon enough, she just hopes it’s with everyone here who wants to come. Lancelot looks around the tent, seemingly troubled by something and Pym touches his hand.

“Do you think Hector will want to go to Avalon?” He asks abruptly.

“I don’t know,” Pym says, something in her aching at the idea, “I don’t think so. He seems to want to get to know you.” Lancelot nods, but he seems less than convinced, “you could ask him. But I don’t think he would want to go right now.”

Lancelot nods again but still seems distracted by the thought. Pym wishes that she had considered it before offering Avalon, but she supposes that sooner or later it would be something that came up. It’s something that will come up for all of them at one point. But for now they’ve chosen to live and to stay in the land of the living. Her eyes fall back to the trunk of Sky People relics. She doesn’t know what draws her over there, maybe the idea of the dead. But she kneels down and opens it again.

She shouldn’t be surprised at the beads now laying on top.

The oak beads are sturdy and practical, they are designed to last. She never wore them as frequently as she knows she was supposed to, they were forever stuffed into her pockets or ‘forgotten’ or purposely left behind in all manner of places. Lancelot comes over, though he doesn’t move behind the trunk with her. Perhaps he thinks he doesn’t have the right. She straightens up with the beads in her hands.

“These were mine,” she says.

He seems unsurprised and she supposes that in the scheme of things, this is less surprising than some of the things that have happened. He looks at the beads and then back to her.

“The string’s red.”

“Oh. Yes,” she says, “most of them are strung with blue. Other colors weren’t as costly.”

He nods. The red is still bright because she didn’t wear them like she was supposed to, but it’s not as vibrant as the red that strings his beads now. But it feels like it means something that their beads have a matching thread. Like there’s somehow been a link between them this entire time. Even though she knows that red is a common color and no such link actually exists. She’s not the type to read into such things like this. It requires more faith and belief than she’s ever really had.

“Is anything else of yours in there?” He asks. She shrugs.

“I’m amazed the beads are there,” she admits, moving some of the things aside carefully, “it’s mostly trinkets,” she says, “I don’t see anything else,” she shrugs, not terribly disappointed. The fact that there’s anything is surprising and the Hidden probably had something to do with it, “Squirrel got his things, that’s what matters.”

“Do the quilts mean something?” He asks.

It’s a reasonable question, though in light of their earlier conversation it feels different. But she pushes that feeling aside. These questions are going to come up. She cannot go red and get lost in her own emotions and embarrassment when she explains them. No more than she can do that every time she has to treat him for an injury or something.

“Not exactly,” she says, “it’s something that’s supposed to be part of a woman’s dowery. She makes it for her and her husband. Then for her children,” she explains, “sometimes when one of the partners in the marriage dies, they’re wrapped in it for their funeral pyre. I wasn’t expecting any of those to survive. Mine was very old.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry you lost your things.”

She doesn’t know why the sentiment makes tears prick at her. It seems incredibly foolish.

“It’s nothing,” she says, “we didn’t have much to begin with,” she shakes her head, “do you want to hold onto these?” She asks, holding out her beads, “until I can give yours back?”

Lancelot looks at her for a moment and then takes off his gloves, taking the beads from her carefully. They’re not his faith, she’s not sure what she expects him to do with them. But he takes them all the same. He holds them carefully, like he’s handling something precious. Even though she’s spent most of her life trying to lose or forget them in various places. His hands are much more accustom to handling prayer beads than hers. But there’s a comfort in the weight of his beads that still warm her pocket.

“Can I see the ring?” He asks.

“Oh, yes,” she says, digging through the trunk. It’s somehow flipped onto the bottom but she pulls out the circlet, “I think the Hidden have been in here,” she mutters. Lancelot looks at her sharply, “I feel fine,” she assures him, “but that was on top of the pile. Those must have been on the bottom,” she blows out the hair that’s fallen into her eyes, “I don’t like this.”

“They must be trying to tell you something,” he says.

“What?” She asks. He shrugs, “can’t they just leave a message?”

“Would you listen?”

She rolls her eyes, they both know the answer to that question, much as she’d like to say otherwise. Now she might, but before she absolutely wouldn’t. Maybe this is the Hidden trying to ease her into some kind of communication. She’s grateful they aren’t in her head whispering, but she’s not thrilled at this turn of events either. Lancelot puts the ring back in the trunk. She drags her eyes from it to him. He looks at her curiously.

“Are you thinking about what we talked about earlier?” She asks.

“Are you?”  
  
“Well, yes,” she says, “especially when I’m explaining about dowries and—“ she glances at the curtain behind which Squirrel is sleeping, “thinking about going home. Guinevere is going to try and kill you if she thinks we got married.”

“I can hold my own against her,” Lancelot points out.

  
“That’s not the point,” Pym shoots back. She sees him try not to smile and she wonders how he can smile at a time like this, “are you thinking about it?”

He nods.

“Being punished was comfortable,” he admits, catching her off guard. His brows draw together, “but when I was being punished when the Guard had me, it didn’t feel the same.”

Pym wants to say that it should never have been comfortable, but they both know that’s the way. She sees the thing he’s struggling with, she knows this kind of communication isn’t necessarily the thing he’s best with. Before she can second guess herself, she moves forward and puts herself in his space. He immediately relaxes, though only just. She looks at him.

“You’re probably not going to be able to feel things in the same way,” she says, “if your back is like the rest of you, your nerves are dulled because of the scars,” he nods, “but touching you so you can feel it isn’t the same thing as punishing you. I’m not punishing you when I touch your back.”

He hasn’t seemed to consider it like that. He looks at the fire and then back to her.

“My scars—“ he starts

“I don’t have a problem with your scars,” she cuts in quickly. The tone of her voice makes him actually startle and she feels her face get so hot, she wonders if she will ever be able to walk around without her skin matching her hair, “if that’s what you were going to say,” she adds quickly, “I didn’t want you to think that was the case,” she catches her lip between their teeth and forces herself to release it, “What were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask if you had a problem touching them,” he says, “that’s good to know.”

She nods.

“I haven’t been thinking of you in that way,” she says, “about you being attractive—“ he looks surprised again and she cannot help but roll her eyes, “you must have realized by now you’re handsome.”

He seems perplexed at the statement and she realizes that he hasn’t. How he missed it, she has no idea. He is objectively attractive. Even when she hated him, when they were enemies, she had known somewhere in the back of her head that if he was anyone else, she would have thought him handsome. It is quieter though, not like Arthur’s boldness. Though she thinks Arthur is very aware of his own attractiveness. He’s too charming not to be. She’s aware of hers too. Lancelot though is wrapped in so many layers of loathing and being convinced things like that are a sin, she’s not surprised his own handsomeness is a foreign concept to him.

He opens his mouth as if to say something but the tent opens as Hector and Jonah return. Maybe it’s the cool air as they enter or maybe it’s the pull of his warmth as he moves backwards but she immediately feels cold. Though the cold should feel good on her face, somehow it doesn’t. Lancelot’s closeness does as she rises with him. The pair of them don’t seem surprised at how they look, they seem regretful at their interruption and Pym remembers they’re supposed to be married.

“Did they decide?” She asks.

  
“Not yet,” Jonah says, “but they didn’t refuse. They’re considering the idea.”

“Which one?”

“All of yours,” he says.

Pym nods though she wishes that they had made up their minds. Mostly she wishes that they hadn’t been interrupted with nonexistent news. She nudges Lancelot and nods towards Hector. If nothing else, perhaps he can settle one thing with his brother.

“I would love to see where you treat people,” she says to Jonah, “maybe you could show me?” He nods, seeming to know something else is going on, “we’re going to discuss healer things,. We’ll be right back.”

“Healer things?” Jonah asks as she moves over to him.

“Just show me where you work,” she says, practically leading him out of the tent herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments/kudos/tumblr messages. I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Onwards!


	110. Spark: Part 27

Lancelot cannot believe she’s run off.

He can, but still. He has to focus back on his brother. She’s alright, he knows that. But his first instinct is to get Squirrel and to go after her. They’re supposed to stay together. He’s half turned towards the sheet when he realizes he needs to trust her. That it’s better to let Squirrel sleep and let her go see where the healers are working. He’s seen nothing to say that Jonah will let anything bad happen to her. He looks back at Hector whose watching him closely.

“Do you not wish for her to be her running off?” Hector asks, “you can retrieve her.”

“What?” He says.

“You seem angry.”

Lancelot realizes that he must be letting his frustration show and that it must appear that he’s mad at her leaving. Not that he’s worried about her running around on the platforms. Pym’s words about husbands owning their wives drags him back to himself like he’s taken a fall. The idea is not foreign to him, but there have been times when he’s wanted something of her and she’s told him off for the idea. Even if it’s something that makes sense like opening the door when you’ve been infected with the plague instead of barricading it. Hector’s looking at him warily. He forces himself to stop.

“She almost died a few days ago,” he says.

  
“She seems alright.”

“That wasn’t a sure thing,” he admits, thinking of sitting by that fire and watching her falter. Hearing her ask to be brought to Avalon. If she had died before they had gotten there, before they had spoken, what else would she have taken to the grave? “I healed, they couldn’t.”

Hector nods and a dark look crosses his face. One Lancelot has seen on people’s features when they look at him sometimes. One they will always have. It’s the price of what he’s done. The fact that it passes at all is a miracle. He deserves far worse from them.

“They’re alive now,” he says, “your wife doesn’t seem like the type to be told where she can and cannot go.”

“She isn’t,” Lancelot agrees, “no-one should be,” he adds and hesitates, “but I’m used to it. It’s easier..”  
  
“What is? People following orders?” Lancelot nods, “they wouldn’t be people if they did,” Hector says, “but it does make things easier.”

He’s surprised at how easily they seem to think the same way. It’s hard not to look for any sign that Hector is lying, but he seems middle perturbed at the realization. As if he understands too that easy doesn’t make it the right thing. Lancelot’s aware enough to know that he’s searching for things that make them brothers, yearning for any scrap of familiarity from a time he cannot remember. Hector gives it to him. He has to remind himself that he cannot trust the ease with which it shows.

“Avalon could be open to you,” he says to Hector who looks surprised at the suggestion, “if you wanted to go.”

“No, I don’t want to go,” Hector says, “even if our loved ones are there, they would want me to stay with you. I want to stay as well,” he says, “regardless of what our leaders say.”

Lancelot nods and then hears what he’s saying.

“You want to come with us, if your people don’t?”

“These aren’t my people,” Hector says, “you’re my family.”

He means it, Lancelot can see it on his face. He would leave them behind if it meant going together. As much as he wants it, Lancelot know that Hector’s abilities to track are the reason that these people are alive. Though he realizes that only worked when the Paladins had a Fey with them. By leaving them, he’s freed Hector from the weight of what he’s done here. It’s a wonderful and crippling thought, all in the same way.

“Perhaps it won’t come to that,” he says.

“I hope not,” Hector agrees, “but that’s the truth.”

“You’re too trusting,” Lancelot says.

Hector snorts.

“You almost sound like you did when we were boys,” he says. Lancelot stares at him, “you forever hid behind your mother’s skirts, never trusting any of the men,” he explains, “you used to drag me there too,” he rubs at the scars on his face, “it saved both of our lives in the end.”

Lancelot wishes that he had always thought that way. More lives could have been saved if he had. Or if he had tried to run again instead of being so afraid. He thinks about how Hector assumed he was upset that Pym had walked off without asking him, as though she needed his permission to do something. The thought makes him feel uneasy. How easily it’s assumed that would be the way he was thinking, how the majority of other men must think and act that way. At least among these Fey. He cannot imagine Guinevere or Kaze even entertaining the idea of that behavior.

Pym isn’t like them, the fact that she’s decided that kind of life isn’t for her without the means to make her way through the world is—incredible. He settles on the word. She has her own kind of strength, which he’s always known. Though the shovel she swung at Hector shows she’s gotten better in the other kind of strength as well, if not the skill of it. It’s a far cry from what she’s relayed about her only battle. Though he cannot be upset that she was knocked out and hidden. The idea of her dying before they even met is one that fills him with dread.

Has he thought about her in the way she proposed?

It’s not as simple a thought as he’s sure they both wish it was. For either of them. He’s tortured enough men to know that if you do things incrementally, people have a way of adjusting. It’s hard to see how far they have come. How far he has come. Sometimes he still slips into old thought patterns and behaviors, but he can recognize them for what they are. He knows better how to ask for help. He’s attempted to use his looks to put the Fey at ease, but it only works if he covers his Marks and that is no easy thing to do. He knows he can pass as somewhat attractive, but his infamy ruins the illusion. Someone like Arthur or Gawain is who he would think Pym would consider, though she’s never expressed attraction to either of them.

Or rather, her attraction has been how everyone seems to be attracted to Arthur.

Has the weight in their sciences been that? It’s a strange phenomena that’s been happening with increasing frequency, one that often leaves them silent and red faced and touching each other’s hands before jumping apart. Irrationally he wishes that he could ask Hector about it, but he has no idea what Hector’s experience is and he thinks that they’re married. It should feel wrong, lying to someone whose opinion has become important in a shockingly short period of time.

  
The fact that it doesn’t feel wrong makes him pause.

Sleeping next to her didn’t feel wrong. Nor does touching her or confiding in her—even asking for help from her. He respects many now, he likes them as well. But Pym is different. Even without fully being able to name it, he knows that she’s always been different. He cannot describe how. He cannot say that has always been the case. But a kinship has developed between them, a comfort that has extended far beyond what he would have expected from another Fey. And even before that, the desire to protect her and Squirrel was there. Beyond anything that made logical sense. Squirrel, yes. But her? That was not something he had expected back in the woods when he first went against the thing he had clung to. He had reveled the Fire to her. Perhaps there was where it started, even if he had not known it then.

“I thought his was the only life I had saved,” he admits, looking towards the sheet, “and he had saved mine,” he looks at his brother, “I didn’t expect others.”  
  
“You seem to have saved a lot of lives,” Hector says, “but you saved mine first,” he adds, “don’t forget that again.”

Lancelot nods. He doesn’t plan on it. He glances towards the tent flaps and Hector chuckles faintly.

“She’ll be alright,” he says.

“I know,” Lancelot replies quickly.

“No-one would harm her to get to you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says. Lancelot gives him a pointed look, “not in front of Jonah anyway. He’s saved everyone in this place ten times over,” Hector adds.

Lancelot smells her before she walks in, he smells the way she’s changed. When she comes in she’s pale and flushed at the same time, she looks sick. Not like before, she’s not dying. But her Fingers are stark across her skin, showing just how upset she is. He gets to his feet as Jonah trails in after her. His own face seems ashen as well as he looks at her regretfully. Pym barges past him and doesn’t stop until she’s almost at the far side of the tent.

“They want us to forget,” Pym snaps. Lancelot frowns, “they say we’re a safety concern. They don’t want to move this place, so they want us to forget how we got here,” she bites her lower lip, “then they’ll send the delegation.”

“They want you to forget,” Jonah says, meeting his eyes, “I have something that will make you forget the details of the past two days. You’ll forget riding here and seeing this place.”

“Which is out of the question,” Pym says.

“They’ll send the delegation?” He says, “they won’t touch either of them?”

“Lancelot!”

He ignores her call of his name, looking for any sign that Jonah is lying. If they’ll let the two of them keep their memories in tact, if he’s the only one they need to drug, he can stand that. That’s a better trade than he would have thought possible. Squirrel is a boy who they think can’t remember and they clearly don’t view Pym as a threat in the same way. He’s the one they see as a problem. As they should. He’s the one that created the trouble.

“Surely there’s another way,” Hector breaks in.

  
“I’m sorry,” Jonah says, “the other way is the three of them forget—“  
  
“No,” he cuts in harshly. Jonah balks at the look, “I’ll do it.”

“I feel sick!” Pym breaks in loudly and storms past him. Jonah and Hector give each other a look, “Lancelot!”

“I’ll be right back,” he mutters to them as he follows her out.

She’s halfway back to the horses before he catches her, which virtually ruins the illusion. He has to put on another push of speed to catch up with her, but instead of letting him catch her she whirls around. Still angry. Still with her Fingers out and fury in her gaze. It’s not the first time he’s though she’s beautiful, but there’s a fury to her beauty now that speaks to some part of him he does his best to hide. To push away. To rise above. Something that stirs low in his gut as he looks at her as she glares up at him.

“You’re going to let them make you forget?” She demands.

“It will keep you two safe,” he says.

“I don’t care about that! You’re going to forget everything about you and Hector, about us being alright—the bread,” she pushes her hands through the escaped pieces of her hair, “everything else—“

He doesn’t know what drives him to grasp her hands with their stained fingertips. She looks up at him, worry mixing with the outrage. She doesn’t say that she doesn’t want him to forget. Though it’s clear the conversation mattered very deeply to her. It did to him as well. But she puts that low on what she wants him to remember, though she shouldn’t. Of all the things he doesn’t want to forget, that is so very near the top. She breaks his gaze, looking away and he sees her eyes grow wet as she looks upwards as if to will back the tears. He follows her gaze and sees that they are not alone. They must not want him to run off with their secrets. Her eyes narrow and she opens her mouth but he rubs his thumbs over the starburst scars on her hands.

“It’s going to be alright,” he says, “better me than all of us. You can tell me everything. Everything except how we got here.”

“But—“

“I cannot have them hurt you because of me,” he says and there’s no lie in how he says it, but the tone isn’t one he’s ever heard his voice make before.

“It’s not fair,” she says but he sees her waver as she knows he’s right.

“Nothing will be,” he tells her, “you knew that when we discussed being wed. It won’t be simple or easy with the things I’ve done.”

She almost jumps at what he says, but she remembers enough of the lie to not. And she hears the truth in his words. It’s not how he wished to say it, to remind her that no matter how they feel, even if she does decide that loving him is what she wishes to do in spite of the complications, those complications will still exist. They will need to compromise and they will need to do things that they don’t want to do. The blood will be there. He deserves it, it and so much worse. She does not. But he respects her too much to make that choice for her. He watches her Fingers tremble.

Then she leans forward and presses her lips to his knuckles.

He cannot explain the feeling it sets off in him. He’s never felt another’s lips against his skin. There are intimate ways to kiss another, he knows that. But she brushes her lips against the faint lacework scars that cover his skin. Scars she’s been there to treat. And against the hands that have been scarred by things long before they met. He feels it differently on the scars, but despite what she said he feels it on them. And he feels it on the unmarked skin, as precious little of that as he has left. Her Fingers slip away but her eyes remain bright when she looks up at him.

“Tell me,” he says.

“I will,” she promises.

He catches the blue vial that is thrown down. A shiver touches her as he looks at it. She takes the bottle from him and uncorks it, smelling it. She seems to recognize it and he trusts her skill.

“You’ll probably be knocked out for a few hours,” she says.

“Leave me here and go to Hector as soon as I take it,” he says, knowing better than to suggest she go before he does.

“But—“

“Goliath,” he says.

The horse plod over obediently and places himself besides him. It’s still far more vulnerable than he wishes it was, but it’s better than just laying there unprotected. He wishes that there was more he could do in this moment, but he knows that wouldn’t be fair to either of them. All he can do is guide her hand down to her pocket where the beads are. She closes her eyes at the tears leak out before she scrubs at her face and grips the beads.

“Sit so you don’t fall,” she says.

He does and lets himself look at her one more time before he takes the vial.

The world slips away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! Thank you to everyone who left it on the last chapter, please let me know your thoughts on this one and I will see you in the next one!


	111. Spark: Part 28

“Pym.”

She folds her arms tighter and ignores her name, looking at Lancelot’s unconscious form. She doesn’t want to look at her uncle. Or at anyone except for Squirrel and Lancelot. Both of them are asleep in the back of the cart. Squirrel needs to sleep, she’s just glad that he can stay asleep and relatively comfortable. She needs Lanceot to wake up. Now. They’ve underestimated her. She mentally counts the turns the covered cart takes, tying different knots in a bit of string for which turns come when. If Lancelot doesn’t wake up, she’s going to get Tristain and come back here.

“Pym—“

“I’m not talking to you,” she snaps to Jonah, turning back to Lancelot, “you didn’t have to do that. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“Am I allowed to respond?” Jonah asks after a moment of quiet.

Pym reminds herself that Jonah is the better healer. That right now it’s best if he stays alive. It’s a miracle that she hasn’t killed anyone directly, but the temptation has never been stronger. Instead she forces herself to sit there and look downwards silently. Silence is the better option. Though it seems to frustrate Jonah. Which she doesn’t care for.

“Are you just going to sit there like a sulking girl—“

“You drugged my husband!” She snaps, “you’re lucky that I’m only sitting here silently.”

It takes even less to defend him as her husband, it doesn’t even register as a lie. Not with how he looked at her, how he pleaded for her to tell him when he woke up. The fact that he’ll have foggy memories at best of that conversation makes her stomach roll. And they barely even had time to discuss it. The bottle was just dropped. Jonah lets out a sound of frustration and peers out the front of the cart’s covering before coming back and sitting next to her.

“This was the kinder choice.”

“It wasn’t a choice,” Pym says. Jonah gives her a look that manages to push doubt closer to her, “what even were the other options?”

“Nothing you need to worry about right now,” Jonah says.

“No, tell me,” Pym starts, “you at least owe me that if you’re going to stuff us into a cart and drug him—“

Almost instantly there’s movement out of the corner of her eye and she finds herself pushed backwards and disarmed as Lancelot is suddenly between them, her knife to Jonah’s throat. There’s a fogged, nauseous look in his eyes but he’s pushed past it to place himself precisely to block Jonah from her and from Squirrel. He’s silent even in the small space, barely even disturbing the movement of the cart as he balances there. Pym knows how skilled he is, but sometimes it’s still shocking to see. There’s no fear in her now at the movements though, just a not quite unpleasant lick of heat somewhere low in her that she does her best to push aside. She touches his arm.

“We’re alright,” she says, “we’ve be with them for almost two days,” she says, “you were drugged to forget their location so Squirrel and I wouldn’t have to be,” Jonah gives her an almost pleading look and she ignores the desire to let him sit there a moment longer, “this is Jonah, my uncle and one of the leaders. Hector, your brother, is driving the cart.”

“Should I let him go?” Lancelot asks.

“Probably,” Pym says, “they’re part of a delegation we’re taking to meet Guinevere. We need them alive to decide if the rest of them are going to help us.”

“Where’s Goliath?” He asks.

“The horses are alongside us,” she says, “I tied them myself. When we’re further out we can ride but at the moment we’re not allowed to see where we’re going.”

“Then why am I awake?”

The question seems directed at her uncle more than her but Jonah’s eyes dart to her. She looks right back at him. He looks down at the blade and she shrugs. She can feel badly about letting Lancelot keep the blade there later. Jonah finally looks back at Lancelot, realizing the knife won’t move before he gets his answers.

“We’re trying to keep our location hidden,” he says, “to save our sick and young the danger of journeying through the winter,” he hesitates, “but you’re kin and you don’t seem a threat. I didn’t give you as much of a dose as I could have.”

“Why give it to me at all?”

“It was the better choice,” the knife moves closer, “the potion was the better alternative unless you wanted a Druid in your head.”

Pym raises her eyebrows and Lancelot waits a moment before the knife is pulled away. It makes more sense than she wishes it did. A Druid in your head wasn’t something she had been aware was an option. Which, she imagines, was the point. Lancelot needed to drink the potion fast. Before the option was presented. If the Druid they have is anything like Merlin, she imagines it was less of a choice once that option came. For all that he’s hated and distrusted, Lancelot knows the secrets that the group needs to survive. She can see the usefulness of being in his head. That doesn’t mean she forgives what has happened.

“You have a Druid?” She questions.

“We do,” Jonah says. He glances at the covering and his hands itch at his forearm, “this was a kindness,” he repeats.

Pym ignores him and his fear, that’s something to focus on later. She turns instead to Lancelot who keeps his hand where he can find the knife. She sees his fingers brush over the beads and the rest of him. He glances at Squirrel but she knows he’s already used his other senses to make sure he’s alright. She fights the urge to live in bliss that maybe the potion didn’t work and touches Lancelot’s arm again.

“What do you remember?”

He glances at Jonah and she waves her hand, “he’s not a threat.”

“It’s vague, after the hut,” he says.

He gives her a long look and Pym refuses to give into the hope she feels in her throat. Vague doesn’t mean he remembers. Not the things she hopes that he might. She nods instead, though Jonah’s words about the druid and what could await them if Lancelot remembers where they are keeps her from asking any more questions. There’s so many lies here. Lies upon lies and she is not very good at them. The threat of a Druid also makes her pause. Merlin is crippled by so many things, if this one is not—it makes her wonder if this was the right thing.

They wouldn’t be here if she had been able to control the Hidden, if they had followed whatever plan was originally in place to keep the location a secret.

But she failed and now Lancelot is paying the price.

She fights the urge to shiver. Only she knows exactly what happened in the woods between them. If it’s after the hut, he probably remembers that they’re pretending to be married. Not that they discussed what actually being together would mean. How it became a possibility. When she looks at him and he looks at her, she forces her eyes back to her hands. Blushing isn’t going to help and it’s only going to confuse him.

He was right, being with him would not be easy. The consequences have just hit her over the head in a very real way. There will be more consequences. She can handle them with how their relationship is now. But just the first tentative step into the possibility of something more resulted in him being drugged and the familiar pain of her heart being twisted. What if they had actually been together? How much worse would it hurt?

“I need to speak to him,” she says to Jonah, “privately. When can we stop?”

Jonah looks almost regretful and the covered wagon suddenly feels very claustrophobic. Her heart beat picks up slightly and she feels the need to breath deeper. She shoves her hand into her pocket and grips Lancelot’s prayer beads, closing her eyes and trying to reign in her physical reaction. Claustrophobia is not like her. Nor is this reaction to being denied. But though she tries to fight against it, she feels the outrage and panic grow. As does the heat in her face. The beads are not as effective as she needs them to be. Even as she keeps her eyes closed, she swears that gold starts to dot the backs of her eyes.

“Pym.”

She feels Lancelot carefully cup her shoulders and turn her so they are facing each other. The gold shimmer persists and she forces her eyes open. It’s clear but that means she’s looking directly at him. His eyes scan her face and she finds it’s difficult to swallow as she looks up at him. He looks at her like he usually does, but a voice in her head reminds her that he doesn’t remember. Against all logic, she feels her throat tighten as she looks up at him. Is she strong enough? She doesn’t have an answer as she stares at him.

The carriage lurches to a stop, Lancelot keeps them steady but the abrupt stop makes Squirrel wake up.

“Come here,” Pym says and her tone surprises all of them. Squirrel scrabbles over, “say nothing.”

There’s a hushed exchange of voices and it feels as though the little air in the cart has been sucked out. She cannot explain it but she knows where the figure is as they move, even when the voices go silent. Even when there is no real way to know. There are whispers in the back of her head, chorusing over one another.

The chorus seems to crescendo and then the covering is pulled back.

She has Nimue’s face.

Except it’s not.

Pym can pick the familiar fragments out, but they’ve been changed. Like a painting that was touched before it was dry. Things have been pulled and warped and pushed. There’s a harshness to her that Nimue never had. She’s a tempest, where Nimue was a calm lake. She’s as beautiful, to be sure, but there is an anger and a haughtiness to her that’s chilling. And something else, something darker. It lurks in her eyes, in her movements, even in the way that her hair moves as she looks in the cart. She wants them to see her looking, Pym realizes. And she wants them to see her.

“He’s awake,” she says.

“Not long ago,” Jonah says and his voice is tight. Her eyes snap from him to her and Pym feels her throat tighten, “my niece. The new Summoner.”

“And the Weeping Monk,” she says, looking past Pym to Lancelot.

“Who are you?” Squirrel asks.

Her eyes move to him and she seems almost surprised. Sauirrel has a habit of catching people off guard with his cleverness and speed, but doing it within five seconds of meeting them is new. Even for him. It’s like she can see through his skin to his soul. Her eyes sweep over him and Pym tells herself she’s imagining them pausing at the bruises covered by his shirt. Squirrel meets her eyes when they meet his and stares at her when they don’t. Whatever she sees, it makes her smile and Pym fights the urge to be sick. It’s not a smile she ever wants to see.

Her eyes slide back to Pym and linger on her belt, that same smile staying on her lips.

Pym realizes for the first time that she’s dressed in black that’s heavy with embroidery and lined in fur. The embroidery though, Pym recognizes it. Or the feel of it. The curves and whorls and even the silver edging. She’s dressed like the Raiders. Or how the Raiders once looked, how they used to look. Before they spent time being hardened at sea. The familiarity of the design does nothing to make Pym feel better. Only to wish, quite badly, that Guinevere was here. Squirrel opens his mouth before either of them can get to him but her eyes lock into him and even he falls silent. Pym swears the air between them glows.

“I am Medraut,” she says, “I’ll be leading the delegation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented, kudosed, messaged and made memes about the last chapter. I hope you all have a happy holiday in whatever way you choose to celebrate. You’ve made this story so much fun to write and I’m thankful for each and everyone one of you! See you in the next chapter!


	112. Spark: Part 29

The nausea gets the better of him when Medraut returns to her carriage.

He can feel the way his mind has been slid over, as though it’s been looked at through a pane of glass. His mind reacts, pulling into itself. Hiding things and pushing things. Compartments upon compartments all stack and shut at the barest slide of an intrusion. He knows that he’s not supposed to look and he doesn’t push the covering further than he needs to in order to be sick on the ground and not the floor of the cart. Even that is a risk, if the slide of a mind over his was that much of a violation. He cannot imagine actually being invaded. The only thing he can see is dirt and hooves. Pym shoves a waterskin at him when he’s done heaving and he gratefully washes out his mouth, pushing himself back into the cart fully.

“That is your druid? Why didn’t you warn us?” Pym demands.

“She wasn’t supposed to be here,” Jonah says, moving forward towards the front.

“Why does she look like Nimue?!”

Jonah freezes. Lancelot forces himself to look from her and back to Squirrel. He looks unsettled in a way that Lancelot has rarely seen. He’s seen it too. Lancelot can guess at the reason, there’s a way that she smells that is far too familiar. It’s something chilling and unsettling. Pym and Squirrel who knew Nimue so well, they can see it. Even without his tracking ability. He shoves the rest of the nausea aside and touches Squirrel’s shoulder. The boy looks up at him, looking far more like a child than Lancelot wishes he did. Jonah hangs his head slightly and looks back at Pym. Lancelot can see the way her skin has shifted and he knows the Hidden are reacting to how upset she is. And she is upset. Him agreeing to take the drugs would be enough to do it, but what just happened has pushed her past caring.

“You know why,” Jonah says.

Pym shakes her head, anger making the Fingers come out momentarily before her old grief comes up and threatens to swallow her whole. She looks away. Squirrel nudges him. He looks shaken as well, but not in the way that Pym is. And Pym’s shaken state seems more from the obvious implications that this Druid is related to Nimue. He doesn’t want either of them to be in pain of any kind, ever but especially not so soon after just surviving the pox and the trip back to their village. But he would choose the pain they are in now rather than the feel of their mind being examined as his was. He has no choice but to focus on Squirrel.

“Did you feel her in your head?” He says lowly.

“No,” Squirrel says, “was she in yours?”

“She tried to be,” he tells him honestly. He hears Jonah mutter a swear and he turns closer to the boy, not caring if it looks suspicious and only caring that they are not overheard, “do whatever you need to to block her out if she tries,” he tells him, “do you understand?’

Squirrel nods.

Lancelot knows that he’s their prize because of the Fire but the true prize will always be Squirrel. The ability to block others, no matter what powers or lies they present, is invaluable. No-one can catch a wind of what he can do and thankfully no-one has. But especially with the secrecy this group of Fey prize so much, Lancelot knows the boy is particularly vulnerable. Especially when they return to the others. Most of all, the druid cannot find out what he is capable of.

“That’s why you know what Nimue could do, why she struggled. Because you had a Druid related to her here the entire time. Not because you suddenly thought better of her or—or cared.”

“I always cared about Nimue,” Jonah protests.

“Then why did you never come back?” Pym demands.

“I was a coward,” Jonah says.

There’s a hushed silence and the blue marks seem to pulse, as if Pym has been trying to wrench the words out of him. But there’s a silence that is an opening and he carefully touches the back of her hand. She jumps again and turns like she’s not expecting it to be him there. In the chaos some of her hair has fallen from it’s braid. It lays like fire across her skin as the blue-green of her Fingers throbs in time with her heart.

He swears he can almost see gold in the whites of her eyes.

“He said he was sorry,” Squirrel says.

When Pym looks at him, Lancelot almost wants to put himself in front of the boy and clap his hand over his mouth. Squirrel can’t reveal his power. As well intentioned as Jonah might be, Lancelot knows that they cannot trust him. Not yet. Not after this. Even Pym seems to have changed her mind after the appearance of the Druid. Squirrel doesn’t look afraid—not that he ever does—and Lancelot remembers out of all of them he has the most experience with people taken over by the Hidden. He’s very careful when he moves and he doesn’t look away as Pym’s eyes track him.

“Nimue loves him,” he reminds her and his voice trembles with the words, “she wouldn’t want you to hurt him.”

Lancelot looks at Jonah who seems frightened and crestfallen in equal measure. Lancelot has seen that look before. It’s not just the threat, it’s the familiarity of it. Jonah has seen something like this before. Lancelot imagines that it wasn’t Pym who looked at him like that. He’s seen the progression of her Fingers even just over the past few days. He’s seen what Nimue can do, when she was angry the look was very similar. But he knows Pym’s face so intimately that it’s like seeing her wear a mask. He looks at Jonah and watches him waver between resigned, frightened and frustrated.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen that look on someone’s face, but it’s jarring to see it on someone not looking at him.

“Look at me,” he says as he sees Squirrel reach forward.

He takes her hands in his before Squirrel can make contact. He trusts the boy but he cannot risk that his power will be used on Pym, She looks at him with outrage naked on her face, but clasping her hands between them seems to catch her off guard. Seems to reach past the anger.

“I know you’re angry. But your anger isn’t going to help you,” she opens her mouth, “it’s not,” he says firmly.

“You don’t know that,” she shoots back.

“I do,” he says, “you talk more when you’re angry.”

“Only with you!”

“Pym.”

She huffs out a breath. The anger has hers mixed in, but the Hidden have added something to her. Warped the anger somehow, as if it has to exist as her own feelings and stand against an all powerful, tangible force. Something that cocoons her. She is not someone that needs to be cocooned or turned, not by some force like that. But the gold eases from her eyes and her Fingers tremble against her skin, their hard edges softening. The conviction and rage eases as she looks down and then at their hands before finally looking up at his eyes.

He’s acutely aware of the hair that’s fallen across the bridge of her nose.

Lancelot pushes that awareness to the side as he watches her Fingers finally retreat, leaving just her skin in their wake. The confusion on her face grows as they sit there and he lets it. Though it hurts. But he knows the pain is necessary. She needs to understand that what is happening is not just her. That something else is happening and she needs to be able to separate herself from it. That is a kinder pain than the rest of the pain that would await if this continued without being brought under control. After another long moment she pulls her hands away, pushing her hair back and looking past him at Jonah.

  
“I’m sorry,” she says, “are you alright?”

‘I’m fine,” he assures her, “I know that wasn’t you.”

  
“It was,” she says, “me and—“ she trails off, “I’m not meant to be this,” she says.

  
“Yes you are,” Squirrel counters, “Nimue wouldn’t have picked you if you weren’t.”

“Nimue didn’t have a choice,” she says with a quick, tight smile.

  
“There’s other Druids so she did,” Squirrel points out, “she trusted you and the Hidden did too.”

Worry falls across her face but she pushes it aside to smile at Squirrel again. He holds her gaze but when she looks away he rolls his eyes, clearly not appreciating the coddling that she’s doing. When he looks at Lancelot, he gives the boy a plain look to let her do it. For now at least. Squirrel huffs quietly but nods, crossing his arms and sitting dow. Jonah joins him on the other side, helping to keep the weight of the cart balanced as they make their way down the road. Lancelot realizes that the cart they are on is as hastily thrown together as the rest of this. With everything, he finds himself as anxious to get back home as he is to make sure no-one here comes near it.

“Where’s Hector?” He asks.

“Up front,” Jonah says.

“You two spent more time together,” Pym volunteers.

Lancelot nods, not surprised from what he remembers. But it’s vague after that. He does not remember talking more to Hector in any concrete way, just vague recollections of a round tent, sour bread and a conversation near Goliath. None of them are helpful. But despite the vagueness he finds himself almost desperate to see Hector, as if he needs to know the man is alright with his own eyes. It’s a strange sensation to have for someone he only just remembers meeting. Even if they have spoken more, it has only been a few days. But the pull of brotherhood is a thread he finds himself desperate to tug.

“Oh you’re also related to Bors,” Squirrel says.

“What?” He blurts out.

“Your mothers knew each other,” Pym supplies, “you’re cousins. Distantly.”

He stares at them in surprise. More family? It’s a difficult thing to wrap his head around. Bors is no longer terrified of him, but Lancelot never would have thought he was related. Then again, he never would have thought that he was half human. From what he remembers about himself as a boy, from what he’s heard, he can see there are similarities in how they act. Though like Squirrel, Bors is a good deal braver than he could ever have hoped to be as a boy.

“Does he know?”

“No,” Pym says. Lancelot looks at her, “he’s been very upset about losing his mother and her family. I don’t think he has any idea,” Squirrel nods, “though—“ she frowns, “maybe that’s why you reacted like that to the trees he grew,” she ventures.

Lancelot thinks of his mother and of Hector and how they interacted with his Fire. He thinks of the Temple and his Fire joining others. Bors has shown no ability with Fire but there’s a connection between them. One he had thought was purely because of their shared experience. But one that Is seemingly also because of the blood that they share, however distantly. He never expected to find blood relatives, he thought he was fortunate to have family at all. He looks between Jonah and Pym who wear similar expressions.

Then he looks at Squirrel.

The boy has no living relatives and has seen someone who is clearly related to Nimue but seems far less upset about it and far more concerned about others. Lancelot remembers buying his father. There is a good chance that is the last Squirrel will see of someone related to him until the day that he has children of his own. Squirrel realizes he’s being stared at and looks up at him with a frown. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Lancelot asks.

“I’m sore,” Squirrel admits, “but I feel better now that I slept.”

It’s not what he means but he nods. This is not a conversation to have in front of others, especially not Jonah. He nods and Squirrel looks confused at what he’s asking. He doesn’t dare hope that the boy is ‘alright’, but rather that he knows that he has family. Regardless of the blood that flows through their veins. Red catches his eye and he turns to see Pym shoving the bit of leather that keeps her braid together into her pocket. She looks to see all of them staring at her and goes slightly red.

“It feels better this way,” she says, “yes I know that’s not me but this seems like an acceptable compromise.”

It’s a practical, Pym answer and Lancelot feels something loosen in the way she states it.

“Besides, we aren’t going anywhere,” she points out.

“What makes you say that?”

“We’re surrounded by armed Fey,” she says, pointing at the covering, “and there’s chains over there.”

He hadn’t seen the chains before. They aren’t iron and are irrelevant, but if they don’t fully know the extent of what he and Hector are capable of, he’s not going to share that information. Jonah sighs and looks at the covered ceiling as though he wishes to be anywhere else. It’s a feeling Lancelot can sympathize with. He supposes even the box could be used as something to contain them if it came to it. It makes him think of the burning, iron thing that Wicklow had him in. He looks at Jonah.

“If you turn this into a negotiation for our release, it won’t end well for you.”

“I know,” Jonah says, “we’re hoping it won’t come to that.”

Preemptively, he puts his hand on top of Pym’s. Before the Fingers can start. She’s clearly considered that they are prisoners but giving them an excuse to cause harm is not something Lancelot is anxious to do. They want to come with help, not add another enemy to the mix. He doesn’t blame this group for thinking they need collateral to have any hope of dealing with Guinevere. He just hopes that they can see that Guinevere is different. He also hopes that Guinevere’s idea of negotiating is more diplomatic than some of the things he’s seen her do. His capture is something that still weighs on her, more than he thought it would. He has to have faith that she will be able to see the situation for what it truly is. That they all will be.

Pym’s Fingers don’t come out, the vines don’t creep up her skin, but her hand shifts so her thumb can brush against his. The intimacy of the gesture catches him off guard, but it feels alright. Surprisingly so. He doesn’t know what has emboldened her to do it. When their eyes meet though, there’s no gold in them. Nothing to say that it’s not her who did it. She opens her mouth and then closes it, looking forward.

“You need to be more honest with us,” she says, “this only works if there’s trust between us and you keep destroying it. Hurting him and us isn’t going to bring anyone back. He’s the only one that can keep you all alive.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because he’s one of us,” she says, “and if you hurt him, it may feel good in the moment. But it means you will never have a place in this world. And I know you want that for your people.”

Jonah is quiet but Pym isn’t finished.

“You should go up front,” she says, “I know you’re here to watch us. Lancelot’s fine and if anything happens we’ll come get you. But right now, you’ve done enough to us. So you should go.”

Jonah looks at her for a moment and then nods, moving to the front of the cart and joining the one driving it. Lancelot finds it easier to breathe when he’s not in there. He sees Pym drop her head in relief and even Squirrel seems to relax a bit. He looks at Pym.

“What do we do now?”

“Rest,” Pym says, “we’re going to need to figure out a way to tell them we’re alright before we find ourselves in another war,” she looks at Squirrel, “and you need to rest because you may need to run.”

“I’m not tired though,” Squirrel says.

“Try,” Pym says.

Squirrel nods and lays down and despite his best words, he’s snoring softly in a few minutes. Pym looks at Squirrel and then turns to she’s facing him. She doesn’t let go of his hand and Lancelot looks at her. She seems sadder than she did before but also frustrated. He’s sorry for it, but not sorry for protecting her. He realizes when her finger moves, it’s against a specific spot on his hand.

“Tell me what happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments, kudos and Tumblr messages! I hope everyone is having a good holiday and I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!


	113. Spark: Part 30

Lancelot’s eyes shut briefly and she sees the discomfort flash across his face.

Worry churns in her gut, it could be any of the things that have happened. Even if he’s alright showing pain around her, it’s not something he does regularly. There’s no dirt because they aren’t foolish enough to give him access to it, even though that’s not enough to stop him. The entire cart could be ash before they knew what was happening. Normally she would be all for playing along, but not if it makes him be in pain. She’s glad she made Jonah leave, she just wishes that they weren’t here in the first place.

“Has your head been hurting since you woke up?”

“I could feel her in my head,” he mutters, “my mind’s trying to protect itself.”

The news of it makes Pym’s stomach knot. She’d expected as much, but the whole point of that potion was some attempt at protecting him from her being there. A kindness, that was what Jonah had called it. He couldn’t know Lancelot’s experience with his head being messed with. What his mind has done to protect itself. She’s never met anyone who can repress and compartmentalize things like he can. It’s a handy thing to be able to do. It’s also not something she would stake against whatever Medraut is capable of. Though she has faith in Lancelot, the image of him laid out on the table with the iron knife in his gut and his brain swelling against his skull is one she doesn’t want to see again.

“I’ll be fine,” he adds.

“I know you will,” she says quickly, “that doesn’t mean you should just be sitting here in pain—“

His hand wraps around hers before she can fully get up and head towards the front of the cart. She looks at him and he shakes his head. She hates this part, when he shows his discomfort and she has to weigh that against his wishes. It’s not as easy as rushing forward and telling them to stop the cart, as much as she wishes it was. She would say that if it was anyone else she would do it, but she knows that’s not true. Lancelot has taught her that things aren’t as simple as blindly trying to fix everyone in the same way. She nods to him and sits back down.

“You’ll tell me if it gets worse?”

He nods.

“Can I try something?” She asks.

He nods again and she draws his hand into her lap. She knows it’s foolish to think she remembers the spot where she kissed his knuckles, but she’s sure that she does. That she’ll remember that for the rest of her days. It makes her sad and angry that she’s the only one who does. Though she knows she shouldn’t judge people quickly, she cannot help but be angry with the Druid. And with herself. She looks at the back of his hand for a moment before pinching the webbing of his thumb.

“It’s supposed to help with the headache,” she explains. She glances up at him, “is it?” He hesitates, “I don’t know if it works on magical headaches.”

“It feels better than her being in my head,” he says.

“That’s not much to go on,” she mutters, relaxing her pressure point. He slots their fingers together before she can let his hand go entirely and she keeps their joined hands in her lap, “sorry.”

“Thank you for trying,” he says, “it’s no worse.”

She sighs but nods, that’s better than if she had made it worse. Though given everything, she’s not sure how that would be possible. He hesitates and she knows he must be curious. Even now she’s somehow managed to focus in on the spot on his hand and if she’s aware of that, he most certainly is. She thinks about the way he looked at her and the plea of wanting to know. The discomfort has, chillingly, centered him and there’s far less of a plea. But there is that quiet surety that she will tell him. She thinks it’s because he has faith in her, but she knows that he also has confidence in getting the information he wants. She almost wants to focus on the latter part.

“We talked,” she starts.

She knows there’s other things that they should speak about. Probably. But she also knows that delaying the inevitable will do them no favors. She wishes that there was a quiet place where they could talk privately, but she knows no such luxury exists. She has to keep her voice down. The trust between them and their captors has already been so broken, she cannot make it worse. She knows she has to choose her words carefully. That she has to assume everyone will be able to hear. He doesn’t interrupt her and she almost wishes that he would. But that’s a cowardly thing and she cannot keep doing that to someone who just sacrificed so much to keep her safe.

“We talked about our future,” she says, “about us,” she forces herself forward, “about how I was afraid of being married to someone who viewed me as property but how being around you changed my mind. About what being together would look like if you and I wanted such a thing.”

That catches him off guard, especially the last bit. She’s not surprised he’s silent. This isn’t exactly how she wanted this conversation to happen. Until now, she didn’t realize how much she valued the privacy they stole. How the cost of her reputation and people’s assumptions were a fair price to pay. Which is almost funny when she thinks about them spying on them for as long as they have. Them because if she gives it any thought, they’ve spent far more time together than they have apart. Even with the kidnappings and the training and the weeks she got lost in her grief. Her life has been laid as bare as his for them. It’s an uncomfortable thought. No-one has ever really be interested in her life like that since she won over a group of Raiders.

“We talked about how the pox might affect us having children but how we would raise them if we did, what we would tell them about our faiths since I’m a Summoner now and yours is so important to you—“

“What did we agree?” He asks and she almost smiles.

“To let them know of both,” she says. He nods, “because you swore you weren’t going to force it on them, like you didn’t on me. But it is what you believe. And it’s not—like I thought it was. Not after what you’ve said.”

“Our faiths have a lot in common,” he acknowledges and she nods.

“We talked about a lot,” he says carefully.

“Yes,” she says.

“I didn’t want to forget it,” he begins.

“Of course not,” she says. He looks unsure, “I’m not angry at you for all of this,” she continues, “Lancelot, you only had to take it because we ran so fast—“ she shakes her head, “this is my fault.”

“You couldn’t control your powers,” he says, “you’ve seen all of us go through what you’re going through,” he glances at Squirrel, “and those who haven’t—“

She follows his gaze and shudders. What she is now is a cobbling of powers she’s not meant to have. And she’s gotten them past the years when people grow into their adult forms, when your mine is full of havoc and the slightest thing can feel as though it’s driven you mad. Going through that with the powers that Squirrel has, that Bors has, is something she doesn’t envy.

“You told me about being a teenager and what it was like,” she says quietly, “and how we were going to have to figure out how I could be touched, like we did with you.”

She looks over to see he’s completely shut down his expression, something she knows isn’t an accident. She cannot blame him for it, his shutting down is matched only by the heat she feels in her cheeks. But she hates that it’s come to this.

“We talked about a lot,” he says finally.

“We did,” she agrees. He gives her a puzzled look. She doesn’t know what he’s missing, it could be anything, “especially after I found that wedding ring in the Sky Folk things that Hector found,” she adds, “since we never exchanged them.”

She tacks on the lie at the end but she hopes he can see the truth in it of finding the ring. Even with everything she’s said, he doesn’t look like he doesn’t believe her. Or like this conversation was one that would be strange of them to have. He doesn’t look like he wants to run or move away from her. He looks thoughtful, like he’s considering what she said. But not like it’s implausible. She wonders if he was expecting they would have this conversation sooner or later, but dismisses the thought. If he had been thinking about it, he would have said something. He may look like the one with all the secrets, but when she thinks back on their relationship the one who tends to keep them is her.

“I suppose almost dying and then finding your family made me think of things we didn’t discuss,” she says.

  
“You and Squirrel are my family,” he says.

His tone sends a shiver down her spine as she looks at him. He’s serious and they both know she values the bond they have. But something about being thought of in the same breath, in that platonic way, it almost makes her feel disappointed. Which is incredibly foolish, she thinks. Even if something were to happen in a different way between them, that bond would be more important.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she says quietly.

“What do you mean?”

Frustration curls through her and she tries to push it away. But it’s harder than she wishes. She wants him to remember, she wants to finish their conversation. She also wants to push him away and run until her head is clear from all the uncertainties churning in it. Like they are all vying for space. She’s glad the Hidden whisper to her rarely. At the moment she’s not sure there’s room for them in the back of her head with all of her own emotions there.

They had talked about figuring out what they want.

It’s the same question she knows has been in the back of her mind. Like a shadow. Probably throughout their entire friendship, though it hasn’t always been visible. She knows he’s a good man, deep in his core where it matters. But he’s a good man who has done horrible things, being a good man won’t bring back those he’s killed or comfort their families. It won’t undo the evil he’s done. Their first conversation about this was inconsequential in the scheme of everything, but the bitter taste of what’s happened lingers in her throat. It’s the first of many, many consequences. She’s signed up to bare them by being his friend and it hasn’t been something she’s regretted.

But being his wife would be something else entirely.

It’s a thought that should make her skin crawl, not send a thrill through her at the idea. It somehow does both and sinks through her like a stone. It’s not just the things he’s done or the good man she knows he is. It’s despite everything he believes, he respects her enough to offer a partnership. Something she’s not sure even existed. Not for someone like her. Not with someone like him.

“I meant blood relatives,” she says, “like our future children, since we thought I might be pregnant and had to leave a few times because I felt sick.”

Surprise cracks his stoic expression even though they both know that’s nothing even remotely possible. Talking about it makes her face heat up again even if it’s silly. Speaking of children distantly and speaking of the chance she’s with child are two different things. Though the distant thought of what they would or would not teach a child, their child, about faith is a more relevant question to where they are.

“Were you happy with the idea of children?” He asks.

Pym swallows tightly. That’s the question, isn’t it? She can agree to the consequences of being his wife, but a child would also bear them. Even more than she would. Everyone bears the consequences of being associated with him willingly. A child wouldn’t have that choice, they would be born into that burden. She looks at their hands and then back at him and she shakes her head.

“It’s too soon,” she says, “I think one day you’ll make a wonderful father but everything’s moving too fast.”

There’s no lie in that. He will be a wonderful father and the idea of having children with him right now feels like standing on the edge of a cliff and hearing water below. There’s a chance of safety, there’s a chance of dying. And the only way to know is to jump.

The hand that tightens on hers reminds her that jumping isn’t something she would do alone.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember,” he says.

“So am I,” she agrees, “but it’s nothing we can’t talk about again.”

“It’s something we needed to talk about,” he agrees.

“Well, we did thanks to you,” she says. She tucks her hair behind her ears, “I may have run at one point,” he doesn’t look surprised, “you came after me—“ then he does, “you don’t seem surprised I would run.”

“I would be surprised if you didn’t,” he says.

She nods and blows her hair out of her eye after it stubbornly falls again. Her scalp feels better but she can tell the sheer length of her hair is going to be a complete nuisance. Which is why she always had it plaited back. She shoves her hair back another time before searching for the bit of leather. The hair falls again and she bites back the urge to curse as she glances around.

She’s not expecting him to touch her.

He doesn’t seem to be expecting it either, as though he’s moved without thinking. His fingertips are feather light against her cheek as he pushes her hair behind her ear. It’s a stupid, simple thing. One she’s done more times than she can count. But it feels different when he touches her. It feels like sparks are dancing across her skin. Like his Fire, but pleasurable. His fingers hesitate for barely a breath before he tucks the hair behind her ear.

“W-why did you do that?” She asks.

“I wanted to,” he says, “is that—“

“Yes it’s alright,” she says quickly, before he can pull his hand from her skin, “I want you to touch me.”

Heat flares in his cheeks and for once she finds the blood draining from hers. Her face doesn’t feel hot, she doesn’t feel nervous, though the declaration should be an embarrassing one. It doesn’t. Her thigh is still warm from his hand, her cheek feels like it’s been set alight in a good way. She wants that feeling to continue. She’s seen Lancelot move, she knows this is where he excels. Even if it’s a very different situation.

It’s exploring.

His fingers linger on her cheekbone and she finds her eyes drawing to his lips. She’s suddenly aware it’s been days since he shaved, though she has no idea why such a thought pops into her head. Maybe because it’s easier to focus on the facets of him than the fact that she feels as though she will crawl out of her skin if he breaks contact with her. Which he does a moment later and she has to press her lips together to stop a sound of protest from escaping.

“Squirrel,” he says softly.

Her eyes fly over to him but he’s asleep, curled into a ball. She looks back over at him and he looks almost apologetic. But she can’t fault him for being logical and thinking continuing what was about to happen in front of him is—not a good idea. Not while they’re prisoners. She runs her tongue over her lip and he looks away, going redder. She catches his hand as he takes it back, but settles for putting it on the bench between them.

“I suppose asking you to blow this up would be a bad idea?” She says with a tight smile. He inclines his head, “we should sneak off when we’re free. Before Guinevere never lets us out of her sight.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” he says.

She nods and before she can think of it being foolish, she gathers up his hand and kisses his knuckle. He looks stunned at her action, too stunned to be embarrassed and moved in a way she wouldn’t have expected from such a simple gesture. But when she thinks about it, it is a similar reaction. Except this time he remembers it.

“That’s the last thing you forgot,” she says, “that’s all of it.”

She’s not expecting him to reciprocate the gesture.

His lips are dry and soft and warm. She’s very aware of the difference in sensation between the scar and the regular skin. She swears even the stained skin feels differently. That’s where his lips brush, against the place where her skin is marked and where it is not. The physical seam of her identities. It’s hard to breathe as the same sparked feeling seems to follow his lips as he looks up at her. She feels a lock of her hair fall from behind her ear.

She lets it stay there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy. And I hope this story has brightened your year a little bit! Everyone who has read, commented, kudosed, messaged me etc. has definitely made mine a little better. So thank you all. Onwards!


	114. Spark: Part 31

He doesn’t sleep for long.

There’s a few hours and only when the throb in his head cannot be hidden or ignored. He’s very aware that the possibility is high he will have to go through it again and he needs to be prepared. A few hours is nothing in their given situation. Jonah and Hector don’t want him dead, at the very least. It’s the minimum that he needs before he’s awake and keeping watch. He’s grateful for the silence and the distance, even if it’s not physical. They are safe and that is what matters most, but he needs the silence. Badly. The throbbing of his head, the past few days, the conversations with everyone, they all tumble through his mind and make it impossible to sort them as they keep happening.

The one his mind keeps returning to is Pym.

It’s foolish, there are far more strategic things he should focus on. If nothing else, he knows that they will eventually figure this out. And if he looks at this problem strategically, Pym’s anger is useful. Being connected to her new powers in such an unstable way can be used. But that’s not what he thinks about. It’s not what his mind keeps going to. The thought passes by and his mind drags to what she said. What they said. His fingers brush the spot where she kissed his knuckles. Her words were powerful but the touch of her lips against his skin was crippling and thrilling in equal measure.

He sorely wishes that he had Arthur here. He may not understand the particulars of Fey courtship, but he’s the only one who Lancelot thinks would understand. It’s an odd thing to have such loyalty to a man-blood, but Arthur has won his all the same. The others wouldn’t understand, not in that way, but Arthur is a romantic. Much as Lancelot would have mocked him for it in another time, now he finds he’s desperate to speak to him.

There is a lot he is confused about.

He has to admit that, if only to himself. When Pym said she didn’t want to be thought of in the same way as Squirrel and then said she wanted him to touch her, he understood she wanted to be touched and thought of as a woman. It’s a bold statement from her, not just for what it entails but for it to be from her at all. Pym doesn’t request things like that, or does so only on rare occasions. When things truly matter. But it then begs the question of whether or not he’s capable of what she’s asking. Being someone like that to her, having that marriage and children—it’s nothing he dreamed of. But so much of his life now are things he didn’t dare dream of. It almost makes sense this would be added to the list. He always knew he would breed, but being a father, that was not something he thought was even a possibility. Is he even capable of doing this?

“Lancelot?”

Hector’s voice comes through the dark and a wave of familiarity washes over him. He’s got no memory of speaking to him in the dark, but he knows that this has happened between them. He can smell Hector through the fabric and he shifts to a different angle. Hector takes an audible breath and Lancelot knows he’s being placed.

“How are you feeling?” Hector asks. Lancelot says nothing. “I wasn’t planning on this,” Hector says, “we weren’t meant to go this way or bring you back so soon,” he hesitates, “You don’t want her in your head.”

“Has she been in yours?” He asks.

“Of course,” Hector says, “several times.”

“Did she hurt you?”

Hector huffs out a breath that tells Lancelot what he needs to know. The slide of her mind against his was nauseating and head splitting. He cannot imagine having it happen again. Much less several times. Lancelot knows their lives have been filled with different kinds of pain, that he is the more bent and broken of them. But the idea that Hector cannot understand the pain he’s been through is one that is quickly vanishing from his head.

“It’s alright,” he says, “you made the best of the situation.”

“I’m truly sorry,” Hector stresses, though the relief in his voice is unmistakable.

“Jonah said this was a kindness,” he says, “I agree.”

Hector exhales and Lancelot wonders at the power that his forgiveness suddenly holds. It’s a strange thing to have people want it, usually he is the one yearning for it. Convinced he will never have it. To be asked for it by someone like Hector, someone who could easily hate him, it makes him believe even more in the bonds of Fey brotherhood.

“But try not to do it again,” he adds.

“I’ll do my best,” Hector says.

Lancelot huffs out a sound and Hector chuckles. It shouldn’t make him feel accomplished to elicit such a response from someone who has drugged him and done the things Hector has. But the familiarity overrides the knowledge of what it should and shouldn’t do. Father said his loyalty was hard won and harder lost. Perhaps it has always been there between Hector and himself. Or perhaps Father was just right to keep him from the Fey and feed into all the things he thought about them. Lancelot isn’t sure anymore.

“Are we close?” He asks.

“Yes,” Hector says, “you’re going to be in chains.”

“Iron?”  
  
“Of course not,” Hector says and Lancelot hears him spit as though he’s said a curse, “we’re Fey.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Lancelot reminds him. He may want to be loyal to Hector and he may not begrudge him what has happened, but even he’s not foolish enough to accept that being Fey means something like Hector is implying. Not like he used to be, “chained and what else?”  
  
“Just chained,” Hector says.

Non iron chains is no problem, if they can be close enough for Pym’s knot magic to work. But they will have to move quickly once it does. He’s seen her create rooms out of trees, but he has no idea if the Hidden have augmented her original powers, disrupted them or anything. He knows that as often as she has the leather in her braid, she holds it with her magic. But that seems to come to if she’s feeling like acknowledging she has any ability with the Hidden or not, rather than any issue with her powers themselves.

“She can’t invade the Queen’s head—or anyone else. They’ll take it as an act of war.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be starting any more of those,” Hector says.

“We’ve started and won them with less,” Lancelot says, “if you want any hope of us working together she needs to not do that,” he gets the sense that the Druid does what she wishes without much of a second thought, “you need to talk to her.”

“Me?” Hector sputters.

“Yes,” he doesn’t like the surprise in Hector’s voice, “Tristain is not going to take well to anyone in her mind.”

“I thought you said the Queen.”

“I said everyone,” Lancelot snaps, “but the Queen won’t work with you if she does it and Tristain will use her Fire. She’s just started making it unaided.”

“Damn,” Hector says, “Damn—I’ll talk to her,” he says, “but I can’t promise she’ll listen to me. This may not work,” he sighs, “will you visit me when I get locked up in your dungeons?”

“Why would you be there?”

“Well I imagine when I defect to your side, they’re going to put me there,” he says, “it would be nice to have some company. We could get to know each other.”

He says it so casually but some part of Lancelot shrieks at the idea of committing such a betrayal. Even as another part desperately hopes that Hector is being serious. That no matter what, he’ll get to keep this scrap of himself. Of the family and life he could have had. It’s selfish and shameful but he latches onto it like a hungry animal, desperate for it. Dependent on it. Hector shifts against the seat and Lancelot lowers his head. He can judge Hector’s approximate position by smell and sound and he presses his hand to the fabric, close to where Hector’s shoulder would be.

“I’ll visit you,” he says quietly.

He wishes there was a way to speak more on the matter, but he knows that even what they’ve said is pushing it. He doesn’t know enough about this Druid to know what she can and cannot do. Or hear or see. He has to operate under the assumption that all is laid bare until proven otherwise. He also has to assume that Hector is compromised, by his own choice or the Druid’s abilities. He knows they need their support, but he does not like the idea of her being around. And with her resemblance to Nimue and Merlin’s broken heart over his daughter, he has a feeling her presence will linger in one way or another.

He pulls his hand back and feels Hector start to follow, as though he will melt through the fabric and join him. But he pulls himself forward and the coldness lingers on Lancelot’s palm as he makes his way to where the others are still sleeping, their breath gently fogging the weak light. He opens the lantern and puts his hand to the flame, changing it to the tempered green of his Fire. It’s not a lot of heat, but it’s enough to make them settle a bit in the cold. They’ve become comfortable with his Fire. As as he. He looks at the Flame that has gone from gold to green and then to Pym. The green light is a reminder of all the ways he’s tainted her so far and a promise of the ways that he will if they continue down this path. He wishes in a cowardly way that this could last long enough for him to make a good, thoughtful decision.

But all too soon the cart stops.

He immediately takes back his Fire and nudges them both awake. When Hector opens the fabric, they are just outside the port. He looks at them all apologetically and fastens the chains on their wrists. They get out. The first thing that Lancelot looks at is Goliath who seems focused on the port. He doesn’t blame him for wanting to get there. The other mount is there as well, though it looks less than thrilled at everything going on. 

Of course his look is nothing compared to Kaze and Gawain.

Lancelot knew he longed for them, but he hadn’t realized how much he needed to see them until they are standing there. Kaze has a look of disinterest in the group that’s very strategic. It doesn’t ease when her eyes flick over them, even though they come back several times. Gawain’s head is bowed but just his presence is enough to unsettle everyone. Lancelot cannot blame them, though by now he simply thinks of this as how Gawain looks. He would have been more jarred by the first sight of him if he hadn’t been focused on getting Pym back.

“As you can see, they’re unharmed,” Medraut says.

“And chained,” Kaze retorts, “give us our people back or this negotiation is over.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Give is the boy back,” Gawain says abruptly.

He doesn’t sound like his usual sighing self. When he raises his eyes, Lancelot can see the anger in them. They seem less human but the voice he speaks with is Gawain’s. The voice that has given orders. Who fights for the living. It’s not one that Lancelot has heard him use in some time.

“That’s—“

“The boy. Now,” he says. Kaze nods, but she glances at them. Pym nods back and he agrees. They are negotiable, but Squirrel needs to be safe. Even he seems to realize it. Lancelot looks to make sure he’s alright but he’s looking at Gawain, “I won’t ask again.”

Medraut hesitates a moment before clapping her hands together.

“Children shouldn’t be in this negotiation anyway,” she says and Lancelot feels sick, unsure if it’s their thought or hers, “Jonah?”

“Go with them,” Lancelot says, “we will see each other soon. Go.”

Squirrel looks as though he’s going to protest or do something foolish but he nods, looking at them desperately. Pym smiles encouragingly, but Lancelot can see her swallowing and the tremble of her skin as he emotions try to pull the Fingers from her. Jonah undoes the boy’s restraints and leads him over to Kaze. She pulls him up easily, settling him on the horse in front of her and Lancelot feels like he can breathe again. She gives them one more look and turns, digging her heels into her horse and breaking for the port.

“So who is representing your Queen?” Medraut asks.

Gawain says nothing.

Instead there’s a slight tremble under his feet and the air becomes heavier with the scent of Gawain’s powers. It’s more rot than summer and Lancelot glances over at Hector to see that he’s alright. He looks slightly nauseated but taking everything in. Lancelot jerks his head towards Goliath. Hector gives him a puzzled look but he grips Jonah’s shoulder and they make their way slowly towards the cart. Medraut is less than patient with the process and walks forward.

“If this negotiation is over—“

There’s a crack in the ground.

Without thinking, Lancelot loops his arms over Pym and pulls her flush against him as the vine walls shoot and twist up. They are all compartmentalized immediately. Lancelot can only hope that Hector and Jonah are near Goliath. He knows Gawain will keep the horse safe. He looks around at the wall and then back to Pym. She looks up at him, the surprise of what’s just happened seems to have stilled the Fingers. She blinks up at him looking very much like herself. The Fingers that spiral out are ones he’s far more used to seeing on her face. Her scent grows stronger as she looks up at him and he hears the click of their chains unlocking.

“Let’s go,” she says but doesn’t move.

He nods, but it’s hard to move his hands from her waist. He takes one in his, keeping her tucked close as the vines shift. Gawain knows enough to realize Lancelot isn’t moving without Goliath and they are given a path to the animal. The cart and it’s horses are nearby, along with Goliath. Pressed to the side are Hector and Jonah.

“Is there anything in the cart that could be used against us?” Pym demands, though her voice is low.

“There wasn’t time.”

“Is the Sky Folk trunk in there? And your things?” She asks Hector. He nods, “both of you get in.”

They climb in and she walks over, scrambling up. Lancelot makes sure the horses are alright before joining her on the front. She takes a deep breath, as though ordering two people into a safer place is something she’s not used to doing. But when he’s next to her, she relaxes slightly and grabs the reins. She grips them before relaxing her hands and nods at him.

“Let’s go home,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a good holiday! And I hope the chapters I posted made it a tiny bit brighter. Thank you to everyone who took a minute to comment, kudos, message me about them, you definitely made me smile. See you in the next chapter!


	115. Spark: Part 32

“Tell me something, when you worked for the Church, did you come back with prisoners and get them involved in new wars they couldn’t afford? Did you go against your orders like that when they sent you out to do one thing?” Guinevere asks. Lancelot clenches his jaw, “no?”

“No.”

Pym winces at the words. She should have known they would find themselves standing there in front of a grumpy, worried Guinevere. She just looks annoyed, she hides it well. But Pym knows her too well now. She can see the shadows under her eyes, the way she holds herself, even the recently bandaged hand that bears the mark of someone else’s work. She wants to ask how she got whatever lays underneath, but she knows calling attention to anything Guinevere perceives as a weakness right now is a bad idea. Especially when she stalks towards them and stands in front of Lancelot, somehow looking up at him and staring him down.

“Then why is there another Ash Fey in my makeshift dungeon? And why are there a bunch of Fey outside the city walls ready to kill us and take this place?!”

“That’s not fair!” Pym objects and tries not to regret it when Guinevere’s attention swings to her.

“Fair?! Fair would be you coming back with the same number of people and goods that you left with!”

“That wasn’t your order—“

“I didn’t think you were stupid enough to need it spelled out!”

“Don’t talk to us like that!”

The hall goes silent and she feels her skin tremble as her Fingers come out in outrage. She knows she shouldn’t talk to Guinevere that way, even after the few days she’s had. But the rebuke slips out. Guinevere raises her eyebrows at her and Pym bites back the urge to run and hide. She knows she’s right. She just has to find the words to say it. Which isn’t easy when Guinevere walks over and stares her down, but Pym forces herself to hold steady.

“We didn’t mean for this to happen. But Hector and Jonah aren’t the problem.”

“The problem is that bitch whose dressed like a raider,” Guinevere says.

“I’m the problem,” Lancelot volunteers.   
  
“Be quiet,” Guinevere shoots at him.

“You’re both the problem!” Pym says, “they’re afraid and hurt by Lancelot and they don’t want to follow a man-blood,” she looks between them, “you’re both the problem so you need to stop blaming each other so we can fix this.”

Either of them could kill her easily. But not as easily as they could before, she thinks. She’s not angry or upset, not enough to bring her Fingers out. She’s exhausted and she feels brittle. Scared. But yelling at them isn’t going to help this situation. She’s sure of that. And they need to move quickly. Once Merlin sees Medraut she knows this is all going to go to hell.

“Where’s Arthur?” Guinevere raises an eyebrow, “you’re both man-bloods but Arthur has the Sword. It’s the one thing that might give us a chance to get their loyalty.”

“Or they could steal it.”

“Then we steal it back,” Pym says, “he needs to go out there with the Sword and show them Nimue chose him. They need a reason.”

Guinevere looks stunned for a moment and Pym braces herself before she laughs loudly.

“Steal it back?” She repeats, “what’s gotten into you? You sound like a proper raider.”

Pym feels her face get hot.

“I don’t like being kidnapped,” she says. Lancelot gives her a pointed look, “I also became a Summoner. The Hidden anointed me,” Guinevere seems surprised, “it’s complicated, we’ll tell you everything later. Right now Arthur needs to show them he has the Sword,” she explains, “oh and they also think we’re married.”

“They what?!”

“Hector assumed and we went along with it, we wanted to ensure we’d be kept together,” Lancelot explains.

Pym’s glad he’s explaining that part of it. The door opens and Arthur comes in quickly. Squirrel and Bors are on his heels. Bors has been crying but rubs furiously at his face. It’s Lancelot who has the most noticeable reaction to him, straightening up and going dead still. As though Bors is going to attack him. Even Bors seems to sense that something is off here. But Squirrel whispers something to him and pushes him forward.

“Glad you’re back,” Arthur says. He glances at Guinevere and to Pym’s surprise she seems to soften slightly before a harder look comes back on her face. Arthur’s caught it though and looks down before looking back up at her.

“They need you to go out and wave your sword so you can legitimize us or something,” Guinevere says, “oh and they think they’re married.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up and his jaw opens.

“Are you?”

Pym looks at Lancelot. They aren’t but it’s not as simple an answer as it was. Saying that they aren’t is the truth but it also feels wrong in light of their conversations. Lancelot manages to look from Bors to her and focus on the conversation at hand. Pym shakes her head quickly and Guinevere gives her a curious look.

“No, we didn’t get married,” she says, “but things are sensitive—Lancelot should be the one to clarify when it comes to Hector.”

Guinevere and Arthur trade a look that Pym doesn’t fully understand. But Arthur nods to them and then gives a small head shake to Guinevere. She rolls her eyes and looks at Lancelot who is still slightly pale and far more focused on Bors and Squirrel. Guinevere raises her eyebrows at the look on his face and looks at Bors who seems equally confused at Lancelot’s reaction to him.

“What about the rest of them?” Arthur asks, “obviously your kin is welcome but the rest of them?”

The words turn over in her head. Kin is welcome. It knots her stomach and sends it to somewhere around her ankles. Kaze may not have seen what she saw when she looked at Medraut’s face. Then again, Nimue was—is—someone she knows as well as herself. Unbidden, the thought of Merlin’s prophecy rises to the top of her head, something she usually pushes away. Taking Camelot, making that golden city, is Medraut there? She almost wants to go to him and demand to know, but the less he knows about the Druid, the better. That prophecy is irrevocably tied to Nimue. They are all tied together.

“They should have a choice,” she says, “but right now they have the same reservations the other Fey had.”

Guinevere makes a noise of disgust but Arthur nods. Pym doesn’t blame her for her frustration. She can’t imagine it’s easy to always have to prove yourself because of the blood in your veins. Blood that in other circumstances entitled you to rule without much of a second thought. People like her and Arthur, who never had much claim to power or saw how it could be taken easily, they are used to having to work for it.

“What do you think?” Guinevere asks, looking at Lancelot.

“They could be useful,” he says.

“I don’t trust them,” Squirrel says.

“Could they be useful?” She asks. Squirrel shrugs.

“Yes,” Pym says, “they could be useful if they’re willing to be loyal,” she thinks of Lancelot being limply loaded into the cart, “I don’t think we should assume they are. And the only thing that might get them to listen is the Sword.”

“Or you.”

“Me?” Pym demands. The three of them trade looks and she knows what they’re thinking, but its completely ludicrous, “no, I was there. They didn’t listen to me. Lancelot wound up drugged and we all wound up chained.”

“Chains you undid,” Guinevere points out, “you said man-bloods were the problem, aren’t you now the highest ranking Fey we have?”

Pym opens and closes her mouth. She can’t properly deny it, because if you look at it a certain way, Guinevere is right. The Sword makes Arthur in charge, but if she laid a claim to it as the Summoner, it wouldn’t be ludicrous. She’s not just one of the few adult Fey here, she is the only one whose become a Summoner. Not that there are any real candidates, but she has still taken on the power and the responsibility. She looks over at Lancelot who inclines his head. Thats not saying much, out of the people in the room she knows Lancelot would listen to her over any other.

“They’re not Sky Folk,” Pym starts. Guinevere’s eyes narrow.

“You’re still the best we have. You and Arthur—“

“I’m going with them,” Lancelot cuts in.

“They have Gawain.”

“I’m going with them,” he repeats.

His voice takes on that tone that it does when he gives an order, one he expects to be followed without questioning. She’s heard it, she’s heard it recently. But it’s a reminder, again, of the man that he was. The things that he did. All in the name of beliefs. Beliefs that are as much a part of him as the marks on his face. They’re altered by their experiences, but still there all the same. She doesn’t know why this is bringing up the old stings of accepting him and being his friend. After everything. Or maybe it’s the idea of what this step would entail.

After everything, can she be the one who helps continue his bloodline?

She doesn’t know why the thought makes her feel nauseous. Or, she wishes she didn’t. She knows why. It’s not just him. Her own family is full of traitors. The main one is locked up after once again proving why he cannot be trusted. She would be continuing that as well. What do you even get when you combine the bloodlines of two traitors? Murderers? Abandoners? Can anything good come from such bad? It’s not even something she should be thinking about. Gawain is holding everyone outside and she can guess well enough that Medraut is not someone who takes kindly to being captured. Or is necessarily being held that well. It’s a tactical maneuver, it has to be.

“I need him there,” she says, interrupting the staring contest Lancelot and Guinevere seem to be having, “he helps. I’m having trouble controlling my emotions with what’s just happened.”

“And he’s not?” Guinevere asks.

“I cried in the Sky People’s village,” Lancelot says simply, “I felt better after that.”

Another look passes between Guinevere and Arthur, though she looks far more surprised and Arthur looks almost proud of him. Pym is definitely surprised he’s admitting it, but she realizes at the same time he’s determined to go with her. When Lancelot is determined, there’s very little he’s not willing to admit or do if it gets him what he wants.

He isn’t like that as a friend, or he isn’t with her. They butt heads enough for her to know there are times when he wishes that she was less stubborn. And she wishes the same for him, but he compromises well enough when they work together. Far better than she thought he would. Her mouth goes dry as she tries to pull her thoughts away from what he would be like as a husband, as a lover—as a father. He’s respected Squirrel’s beliefs, but what would he do with his own children? Their children? He’s said one thing, she doesn’t know why she’s having trouble believing it.

“We can’t leave Gawain out there,” she says abruptly, “Lancelot needs to go either way, they don’t fully understand what he’s capable of, they seemed surprised at how quickly he woke up,” she explains.

“They also locked you up with regular steel,” Arthur says.

“No Fey would lock another up with iron,” Pym says, “that’s not something we do to each other.”  
  
“But drugging and murdering each other is?” Guinevere says.

Pym feels her face get hot. Given everything that’s happened, not locking each other up with iron seems like a foolish thing to care about. She glances at Lancelot, out of all of them he’s the one whose suffered the brunt of it. When she thinks about how many of his scars were dealt by the Fey, it’s a wonder he’s been able to give any of them a chance. She can just press her lips together and nod, embarrassed on behalf of her kind. That return to silence seems to annoy Guinevere anew and she looks between all of them.

“I’ll go myself.”

“No,” Lancelot says flatly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Well this isn’t your city, is it?” She says, “and the last I checked, I’m the one you’ve sworn loyalty to,” she moves as she speaks, grabbing her spear and fastening her cloak, “none of you are in the right headspace to do this,” she says, “you’ve wasted enough time arguing amongst yourselves and if you blush like that because I pointed out the hypocrisy of your kind, I don’t know what you’d do in negotiating. You said we needed to surprise them, so be it. Kaze!”

Kaze appears and with her is Tristain. Pym is surprised she feels almost relieved to see her. The Ash Fey looks at both of them silently, which is one of the nicer ways she’s greeted Lancelot. Pym doesn’t miss the thick glove tucked into her belt. Though she’s not sure if that’s the thing keeping her calm or if its pride in her newfound control or if it’s something else.

“We’re going to speak to the Fey outside the walls,” Guinevere says.  
  
“I see you’re alive,” Tristain says and Pym’s not sure which of them she’s talking to. Maybe both.

“We are,” she says, “I see you didn’t burn the place down while we were gone.”  
  
“I pulled the Fire back,” she says and glances at Lancelot, “like we practiced.”

“Good,” Guinevere says, “let’s go,” she glances at them, “Oh and the Fey think they’re married for some reason. So if anyone refers to her as his wife—just go with it.”  
  
“That won’t be difficult,” Kaze says.

“You should pretend to be married to someone else,” Tristain says, “anyone else.”

Pym glances away in the vain hope that they won’t see her getting red. Out of the corner of her eye she sees something gossamer and black, but when she turns it’s Morgana’s veil as she comes fully into view. She glances at them and Pym can hear Merlin behind her. She gives her a desperate look and shakes her head. Morgana falters slightly before she turns.

“Wait, I remember, I didn’t understand that last bit,” she says, turning around, “what does one do with the toad?”

Pym nearly sags in relief.

“Let’s go before anything else happens,” Guinevere says.

“The Sword—“ Arthur starts.

“They’re swearing loyalty to me first,” Guinevere says, “if they can’t do that, then they aren’t welcome and we’ll take Camelot without them,” she looks at Pym, “all of us.”

Pym watches her sweep out, shouting for one of her Raiders to bring her horse around. She knows she should try to argue more for the original plan, but her legs tremble. She knows she’s holding on for the last few days, that whatever’s keeping her upright is going to fail sooner rather than later. She touches Lancelot’s arm and feels oddly disappointed when the same sparking feeling isn’t there. Even if that makes it easier, somehow.

“You should speak to Bors,” she says.

He looks surprised for a moment and then nods.

“Squirrel, lets go get cleaned up,” she says, “Lancelot will find us afterwards.”

Squirrel hesitates a moment before he nods and comes over to her. She settles her hand on his shoulder, telling herself it’s just her mind that he seems taller. She needs to look at his bruises and she knows this is a conversation Lancelot should have with Bors privately. She smiles at Bors who seems to be in shock at the prospect of speaking to Lancelot alone, before he seems to remember something and squares his shoulders.

“We’ll see him in a bit, come on,” she says, guiding Squirrel away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I live in the USA and there's a lot of crazy stuff happening right now. I am still very dedicated to this story, I just keep getting distracted by the news. But I will try not to keep you waiting too long and I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter! See you in the next one!


	116. Spark: Part 33

Bors is silent as he leads him towards Hector.

He looks afraid and Lancelot cannot blame him. He knows his reaction to seeing him hasn’t exactly been subtle. Lancelot also knows that the fear is at his reaction and not at him. Not like when they first met. Bors has steadily grown braver around him. Lancelot has to keep that in mind. They’ve been through things together, Bors knows who he is and has forgiven him. Learned to trust him.

They all have.

The new Fey have every right to hate him, to try to harm him. But the double edge of this is that in doing so they harm the people he cares most about. He can see the logic in their actions, their desperation to slow him from knowing their location. But taking his memories has hurt Pym. The collateral is unacceptable to him, but how many people has he forced into this position? How many little ones? He glances down at Bors who looks up at him.

“You’re quiet,” he says, realizing he’s half expecting him to start crying, “why?” Bors shrugs, “you know you couldn’t come.”

“I could have helped,” he mumbles and Lancelot realizes that he’s sulking.

“Yes,” he says, trying to choose his words and wishing desperately that someone who finds the right ones was here.

“Just because my dad was human doesn’t mean I couldn’t.”

Lancelot frowns, realizing that is a bigger issue than he thought it was. Bors glances up at him and then quickly looks down. Lancelot cannot tell if he’s embarrassed or just hates that part of himself. What must his kin have told him to get him to keep his mouth shut like that? To hate that part of himself so much? It took a knife and a fire to get Lancelot to feel that way as a boy. But from what he’s seen, Bors doesn’t bears those same physical scars. And the deepest psychological ones were dealt by Lancelot and his kin’s actions. Bors doesn’t seem to hate him the same way.

“Having a human father doesn’t make you weak,” he says, “you’ve saved my life,” he hesitates, “Gawain would have helped as well. But we needed to move quicker than a group would have allowed.”

Bors nods but doesn’t look thrilled. Lancelot bites back this new frustration. He felt helpless enough being there, not being able to be there—that wasn’t something he was willing to entertain. But he realizes he forced it on someone else. Relief hits him when he sees Bedivere in front of the cells. It’s a strange thing to see his kin but a stranger and the man who knows him better than most in the same field of vision, but here they are. They both look at him. Actually, everyone’s eyes find him. Some irrational part of him wants to yell at them to look away, or fade into the confines of his cowl. He does neither, walking forward with the still sulking Bors. Bedivere shoots him a sympathetic look, he’s probably more familiar with Bors’ emotional state.

“Good to see you back,” he says. Lancelot nods, “I was getting our guests settled.”

“Separately?” Lancelot asks.

“For now, it seemed prudent.”

He inclines his head and looks at Hector. Hector seems confused at the exchange, Lancelot cannot tell if the tension is from his situation or from Bedivere’s presence. Bedivere is still tonsured. It takes no great guesswork to figure out he’s a Man of the Cloth, though Lancelot isn’t sure if Hector knows he was a Paladin. Here though the truth is easier.

“This is Father Bedivere,” he says, “we trained together.”

Hector almost looks hurt at the words. Lancelot remembers his mother telling him to bring Hector with him, they clearly began training together. But he’s selfishly glad that Hector was not there when he was training with the Paladins. Hector has his own scars. Lancelot will always mourn the time that was lost to them, the relationship they could have had. But he will always be glad that Hector doesn’t know what it is to crave the flog. He looks down at Bors, glad he’ll never know either.

“This is Bors,” he says, glancing at them, “you remember Jonah? This is Hector, my brother.”

That seems to shock Bors out of his stupor, his head whips between them. Lancelot can’t blame his confusion, they don’t look like kin at first glance. But then, he has to admit that Bors doesn’t bear much of a resemblance to either of them. And the scents—they throw him off. The same way Tristain’s did. But he’s been around her for much longer, her scent is familiar now. Bors is as well, but there’s always been something off about it. Fainter. He knows its his mixed heritage. He sees Hector approach slowly and take a deep breath. He looks at him and gives a small nod. Lancelot doesn’t know what he’s nodding about. Bors doesn’t move back, Lancelot realizes that however shy the boy is, he has no reason to be afraid of Hector. Except by his association with Lancelot.

“Hello,” Hector says.

There’s another beat of silence.

“You’re related to us,” Lancelot says, “our mothers were cousins.”

Bors and Hector both stare at him in shock and Lancelot isn’t sure if he was supposed to find a way to phrase this more delicately. But it also seems foolish to stand there staring at each other trying to discern secrets. As far as he’s seen, Bors has no ability to smell out others. Having him be the only one not aware of what is happening also seems unfair to the boy. He looks over to see Jonah looking surprised along with Bedivere. Lancelot focuses on Bedivere, out of this group he knows him better than anyone else. And what you are actually supposed to do. Bedivere opens and closes his mouth before realizing the floundering Lancelot is doing and comes closer.

“Your mothers knew each other?” He prods.

  
“His mother was like one to me,” Hector says, “she came here. She told us stories of this land and of the people she met,” he looks at Lancelot before focusing on Bors, “we all come from the same place.”

“So we’re family,” Bors says slowly.

“Yes,” they both say at the same time.

“But you don’t share the same mother as him,” he says.

“Our mothers were cousins. Hector and I share a father,” he says, “but we’re all related.”

Bors doesn’t burst into tears or react really much at all. He seems to almost withdraw. Lancelot doesn’t know if it’s his reaction to the news, to the idea of being related to Lancelot, being left behind or some combination of all of those factors. But seeing his reaction feels almost like being struck. Stabbed. Like there’s something in him that’s foreign and sharp and twisting. He looks at Bedivere who seems to understand and touches the boy’s shoulder.

“Come,” he says.

Bors follows.

Lancelot watches silently as Hector lets out a frustrated sigh, though he doesn’t retreat to the back of the cell.

“Must be a shock,” he says, “he’ll come around,”

“I burned his village down. We found his mother on a crucifix,” Lancelot replies, realizing it sounds like a retort, “he doesn’t need to come around,” he glances at him and at Jonah, “you’re comfortable?”

  
“Fine,” Jonah says.

“Good, someone will be back to see you shortly with food,” he says.

Jonah nods and Lancelot glances at Hector who does the same. He doesn’t know why it feels so frustrating to have someone react in such a plausible way. Why it feels hopeless. It shouldn’t. It cannot. These are the first new Fey that they’ve encountered and no-one else has any obligation to forgive him no matter what he does. He’s done things that are unforgivable. Done them in the name of a God whose forgiveness he’s always believed in—but now cannot help but question. Is all of this as futile as it feels? Is there any point to it at all if he’s always stuck as the monster he’s tried to grow past? It feels as though the sins of the past are pulling him down, like he’s back underwater. Drowning.

“Lancelot—Lancelot!”

Arthur pulls him up again.

How, Lancelot doesn’t understand. Arthur should hate him as much as anyone. More, really. Gawain should hate him most of all. But Arthur looks happy to see him, it takes a moment for the smile to falter as he looks at him. A shameful part of him wishes for the cowl to hide his expression or the days when it didn’t matter, but he forces himself to bear the embarrassment and look at Arthur.

“Do you want to go talk somewhere?” Arthur offers.

  
A part of him wants to run to the people who do accept him, but he thinks of the conversation with Pym and the anguish in her eyes in the throne room and instead he nods. Arthur nods in return and leads him away. Lancelot can do no more than follow, but he’s not worried. Not with Arthur. Arthur leads him back out and to the stables. How he knows where to take him, Lancelot cannot say but the familiar ground and smells immediately make him relax. Arthur does a quick sweep of the stalls before coming back.

“So, do you want to start with what just happened or before?”

“Pym and I talked,” he says, “about our feelings.”

Relief and interest go across Arthur’s face. And sympathy. Too much of all of it. There’s just no surprise on it. He’s used to Guinevere telling him how things might look and affect Pym, but the sympathy on Arthur’s face makes him think that the appearance is not the issue. And he knows it in a way he’s not sure anyone else did.

“Did it go well?” Arthur asks.

“I’m not sure,” Lancelot confesses. Arthur winces, “what?”

“Nothing. If you were anyone else, I’d say that meant it didn’t go well. But you’re you, so, I couldn’t say for sure.”

Lancelot thinks of being drugged, of the other Fey’s fear, of Bors’ silence. Of Pym’s struggles during their conversation.

“She was worried I would force my beliefs on her. On any—“ he cuts himself off.

“Children?” Arthur offers. He nods, “would you?” His eyes narrow, “your Faith is a part of you,” Arthur says, his tone miraculously without judgement, “I know you care about us—about her—more than that—“

“I couldn’t Pray until I met her,” he says. Arthur seems shocked, “not like my Brothers did. She knows,” he looks down at his blades. At the crosses that adorn them, “she didn’t have a problem with it.”

“I’m not saying she does. When we were going to rescue you, she was able to talk about your Faith better than most. She knew most of the Prayers,” Arthur explains, “but you can’t fault her for being afraid.”

Lancelot looks at him sharply.

“I’m not saying she’s afraid of you,” Arthur says quickly, “or your Faith. But she might not have made her peace with becoming a part of it. Even through marrying you. You know she sometimes needs time to process things. We all do. I imagine for someone whose been in denial for so long—“

“What do you mean?”

“When we spoke on the ship after you and I first met again, I thought she was in love with you then,” he admits, “and just not ready to talk about it.”

“And me?”

“I wasn’t sure you knew what love was—that kind of love,” he says, “it seemed like something the Paladins would have not wanted for you.”

“They wanted me to breed. Eventually,” Lancelot admits, “the subject came up.”

“You know that’s not what this is, don’t you?” Arthur says, “yes, you would have children but there’s a difference between that and breeding,” Lancelot nods, “so you understand how all that works.”

“I know how to procreate,” he says.

Arthur looks visibly relieved.

“Were you going to—“

“It wasn’t my first choice to explain things but if you had questions I wasn’t going to leave you confused,” Arthur stammers out, “you’ve never courted anyone?” He adds tentatively. Lancelot gives him a sharp look, “well I wasn’t expecting you to know how procreating works.”

“I know the physical aspect.”

Arthur nods.

“Well, that’s something,” he says.

“But not anything else.”

Arthur seems to understand the frustration in his voice but he doesn’t show the pity that Lancelot is expecting.

“Did you have friends with the Paladins?” He asks. Lancelot shakes his head, “but you have them now. We’re friends,” Lancelot nods, “so you can learn the other things.”

“Pym helped,” he says, “I don’t—“

“Don’t let your ego get in the way of asking for help. And especially not for asking her for help. Trust me on this. You don’t want to lie to her. Or steal her sword. It doesn’t end well.”

Lancelot can see the logic in his words and nods grudgingly.

“Besides Pym seems to want you just like you are,” he says, “or she will when she’s worked out that it’s what she wants. You have to be patient,” he almost smiles, “rather, you have to wait. As you did before.”

Lancelot hates that he has a point, he doesn’t want to be patient. Or, rather, he doesn’t want Pym to retreat and be afraid of her feelings about him again. He knows patience is a virtue but it’s never been one he was particularly good at. Arthur seems to know what he’s talking about though. He was right the last time he told Lancelot he needed to wait. But one thing continues to plague him and turn over in his head. Something that he almost dares not give a voice to. Patience hasn’t been one of his virtues, but he refuses to let cowardice cling to him longer.

“Marrying me would ruin her,” he says.

“It would be difficult,” Arthur agrees, “but it wouldn’t ruin either of you. Not to anyone who matters.”

“You sound like her,” Lancelot says, “if not for me, those Fey would be on our side. We could be taking Camelot.”

“You, Guinevere, me—who knows what they’ll think of Morgana or Merlin,” Arthur corrects him, “you said it yourself, you aren’t the whole problem,” he says, “and if I’m sounding like Pym, I think she’d tell you that your friends would rather not have Camelot than lose you.”

“That’s foolish,” he says.

“See that’s the humor that makes us want to keep you around,” Arthur says. Lancelot rolls his eyes, even as he recognizes the joke for what it is, “there are other cities we can take. Other ways we can do this. Besides none of us are interested in Camelot until we can make sure Pym is there too.”

The reminder of the vision is another thing, but it seems to set off a reaction in him. It re-ignites the constant need that seems to exist in him to be around her. His pacing must give him away because Arthur pushes himself up.

“If I’m sounding like Pym—“

“Stop it,” Lancelot tells him before his curiosity gets the better of him, “what?”

“I’d say you should listen to your smart, dashing friend Arthur and come to him whenever you need advice.”

Lancelot shakes his head but doesn’t try to fight the smile at the outlandish statement. After all, he did come to him for advice and it’s not unfathomable that Pym would suggest the same. Still Arthur looks truly proud of himself, though Lancelot isn’t sure what combination put that look on his face.

“Let’s get back before your ego gets too big for the stables,” he says.

“Or your ‘wife’ starts to worry.”

Lancelot tries to glare but even he can’t deny where his feet--and heart--want to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who took the time to comment/kudos/message me. It really helps me keep my focus. I'm sorry to see interest in this story waning but I promise I'm still updating! Onwards!


	117. Spark: Part 34

“There, this should help make them go away faster,” Pym says, “do you want to rest?”

“I’m not tired,” Squirrel says, drawing his hands back. For the first time in days, he looks up at her with clear eyes that are far less clouded with pain. The discomfort is there, but he doesn’t seem lost in it, “do you think Bors is happy being part Ash Folk?”

“I don’t know,” Pym admits.

“Do you think he can make Fire?”

“No,” she says, “we’ve seen him around trees, remember? I’ve never seen him make Fey Fire. Have you?”

“No,” Squirrel says, “but his hands turn green.”

Pym is glad she doesn’t have the sleeping drought in her hand when Squirrel points it out. It’s a simple, obvious thing. One they all know about. Bors has a green thumb, a very rare and wonderful ability to help nature grow. Something his mother could do as well. She doesn’t think anyone made the connection that it was a common Ash Folk ability. She looks at Squirrel and he shrugs, kicking out his legs almost petulantly.

“Did you realize he was related to the Ash Folk?” She asks.

“Dunno,” Squirrel says.

“Squirrel—“

“I’d be a good Ash Fey,” Squirrel adds abruptly, “wouldn’t I?”

Pym sighs, realizing that it must be harder on Squirrel than she thought. She has Jonah and Lancelot has more blood relation than he seems to know what to do with. And Squirrel saw the last of his family that, they knew of, being put in the ground. Out of all of them, Squirrel grew up loved. Deeply. She remembers always seeing him and his parents, there was no doubt that he was loved. Not just seen as a useful tool. Or something to be tossed aside. She has no doubt that if Squirrel’s parents were in the situation the Ash Folk were in, they would have smuggled him out like Tristain’s parents tried to do.

“You are a wonderful Sky Fey,” Pym says, “same as me. And I am glad you are,” she continues, “it would be hard being around all the Ash Fey without you,” she smiles, “besides you’re far too funny to be an Ash Fey.”

That seems to cheer him up, though not as much as she wishes it would.

“Besides blood isn’t the only way people are family. Nimue and I were family. Even after we found out we weren’t related. You know that Lancelot thinks of you as family. We both do,” she says, “but it wouldn’t do for you to be his younger relative. That would make being his Knight even more awkward. And you don’t want to make it harder on him, do you?”

“No,” Squirrel says, “it’s hard enough.”

“Exactly. So you have family and an important job to do. It doesn’t matter that we don’t have the same blood in our veins.”

She hears the door open and glances over at Lancelot as he steps inside. Though he looks lost in his thoughts. It’s not a good sign, but at least he’s not with his mask. Their eyes catch each other and he looks away before meeting her gaze and then looking at Squirrel.

“Bedivere is with him,” he says. He focuses on Squirrel, “I need you to go check on him. He listens to you.”

“Wait,” Pym says when Squirrel goes to get up, “Squirrel is your family too.” He looks at her blankly. She gives a nod to show what she needs from him but he ignores it, going to Squirrel.

“What’s wrong?”

“Bors gets to be your cousin,” Squirrel says instantly and Pym wonders again at how he can get Squirrel to speak like that.

“He is,” Lancelot says, “none of which I would have known if not for you,” Squirrel looks down, “you are our family. And we are in your debt.”

“No you’re not,” Squirrel mumbles, sounding remarkably both like the boy he is and someone far beyond his years, “that’s what family does for each other.”

It’s what family is supposed to do for each other, Pym thinks. Then she thinks about the kin she has, even the kin she had before this. Her uncle’s behavior is not the exception. There was a cruelness to them, even before they were desperate for survival. It’s a sharp contrast to Lancelot who has done worse, but seems incapable of that kind of cruelty. It’s a strange thing to pull apart in her head as she watches him clasp Squirrel’s shoulder.

“I’ll go find him,” he says and looks over at her, “I can, right?”

“Of course,” she says, “we can always reapply this, it’s just to help with the bruises.”

Squirrel nods and hops down, landing steadier than she’s seen him do in a while. It doesn’t seem like much progress to him but she notes it and is glad. He walks off to find Bors and she’s glad that he can do that without her having to worry about him being kidnapped, hurt or something else. They’re safe. It’s relieving. Though that relief eases somewhat when she sees Lancelot focused intently on her. Some cowardly part wants to come up with an excuse to end the conversation, to have some time to sort out her thoughts and feelings, but she shoves that part aside. She knows that it’s just a cowards move. Thinking and torturing herself isn’t going to help.

“I’m sorry the reaction wasn’t what you were hoping for,” she says.

“I would be afraid too,” he says, “if I were in his position.”

“That’s not really fair to either of you,” she sighs. He almost softens, “after everything—“

“I killed his family and took his home,” he points out. She winces, “nothing will change that. It’s a sin I will deal with for the rest of my life,” she glances away, knowing he’s right, “you struggle with it too.”

“Sometimes,” she admits, “mostly I struggle with what I think I should feel. Not what I actually feel,” she says. She looks at him, “I know you understand that.”

He nods.

“But I wouldn’t struggle if I didn’t feel so nice around you,” she continues, “if I didn’t like being around you. With Nimue I always knew that what people said was foolish and narrow minded. But Nimue—“

“Didn’t murder so many,” Lancelot offers.

“I can’t really say that anymore,” Pym admits, thinking of all the Paladins. They deserved to die, but if she goes down that road and looks at Lancelot’s life it’s easy to say that the Fey he killed deserved it as well, “I’m sorry, I wish this wasn’t so complicated.”

“It’s not complicated because of you,” he says.

She sighs because she knows that’s true, but at the same time she cannot help but feel as though if she could let go of what she thinks she should be feeling and focus on what she does feel, things would be easier. But then she thinks of her village and she knows that it’s not as simple as that. She doesn’t know why this feels like a further betrayal. No, she thinks, she does. She knows. All those people, all those girls, who wanted a life and a marriage and little ones. And they’re charred bones in the dirt if they’re lucky. What right does she have to change her mind? What right does she have to wed him, to have those things. To give them to him? How much of her distaste for marriage is the sting of hearing those things about herself?

“I know that being with me scares you,” he says. Pym catches her lower lip but doesn’t deny what he’s saying, “I know it makes you feel guilty. Like being my friend did,” he says, “all Fey are brothers was a difficult thing for you to follow with the one who burned down your village and tried to kill your friend. All Fey are brothers is not the same as you being my wife.”

Hearing the words feels not unlike being slapped. But it also feels like being hugged. It’s a strange thing to feel. She half expects someone to interrupt but oddly she finds that isn’t what she wants. Though in situations like this, she knows that it usually is. She doesn’t know why she feels ready to hear those words from him, what things have happened that make her feel alright, but she feels that way all the same.

“It’s not,” she agrees.

“If you need time, if you need me to leave you alone—“

“No!” She cuts him off before he can continue. His lips quirk up and she sees relief before he shoves the look aside, “I mean, I don’t want you to go away,” she tries, aiming for something that sounds far more reasonable, “it was easier to pretend—before—that my feelings only affected me. Even if that wasn’t true. This is something else.”

He nods.

“Though that’s strange in itself. The people who are getting married aren’t usually the ones who discuss it,” she says, “their parents do.”

“We’re both orphans,” he points out, “and you don’t seem interested in the usual marriage,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, “what do you want?”

It’s a simple question but it rocks her. Not because she isn’t expecting it, but because it’s still strange to hear on his lips. On anyone’s lips. Of all the ways she could have seen this occurring, being brought up, being asked so directly what she wanted was never one of them. Then again, neither was he. He looks at her calmly, like this isn’t some sort of test or trick. And she knows that it isn’t. Of all the things that have turned out to be, he’s actually the farthest thing from it.

“You know this is all complicated because I do care about you,” she blurts out instead, “very much. And because if I marry you, am I saying what you did is alright? The Sky Folk used to say I shouldn’t be married, that any children would bear the shame of angering the Hidden.”

“Is that true?”

“How should I know?” She says. He gives her a plain look and she sighs, “I can’t just talk to them.”

“You probably could,” he points out, “if you learn to control it.”

“That—“ she cuts herself off, “it doesn’t matter what they say. Besides, being married was never something I wanted,” she says, though they both know she has before, “and you changed that. But how we’ve been acting isn’t how a Fey couple usually does. Not with the Sky Folk,” she explains quickly, “we aren’t separate—I don’t serve you,” he nods, “I don’t want that to change. Do you?”

“No,” he says and his brows draw together, “why don’t you believe me?”

She feels her face get hot. There’s no sense in denying it.

“Because I haven’t met a man who doesn’t,” she admits finally, “and I see you get frustrated sometimes when people don’t listen to you.”

“I do,” he says, “because they used to. It was simpler back then,” he admits, “but I wasn’t a husband back then. There’s no wishing for a wife to obey me,” she glances down, “I am working on not wishing for the others to obey me,” he adds.  
  
“I know,” she says, “and there are times when obviously listening to you is the smart thing to do,” she adds quickly.

“Not that it’s ever stopped you from doing something else,” he points out.

“That’s only when you suggest foolish things,” she replies.

He purses his lips together and she bites on the smile that threatens her.

“A wise Fey once told me that if I glared, no-one would want to talk to me,” he says.

Pym feels her face grow hot, thought whether it’s at the compliment of her wisdom or the fact that he still remembers, she cannot say. It’s a strange thing to know she could ask for anything and he would probably do it. The dizziness of it feels no different from the Hidden. Actually as she stares at him, it does feel that way. She sees concern on his face and she knows that her Fingers are trembling underneath her skin. She opens her mouth to explain and he reaches out, taking her hand. The contact calms her immediately, she can feel them trembling under her skin but they don’t come out.

“Did I upset you?”  
  
“No!” She says, “I—I don’t know how to control this,” she admits, “I can’t always depend on you to calm them,” he gives her a look, “we both know that we can’t stay glued to each other all day.”

“You can learn.”

“How?” She says, “I’m not like you. I’ve never felt like this or had something like this to control,” she presses her lips together and pulls her hand back, her stomach sinking when she feels the Fingers appear on her skin and her familiar knot magic is at her fingertips, even though there’s nothing that needs to be tied, “we can’t even talk about this without them coming out.”

“We could keep talking.”

It’s an offer on her behalf. Lancelot is better about talking, but its not his most comfortable way of communicating. She doesn’t think it ever really will be. He’s spent too long holding back his words and learning to communicate in another way. And even if that was not the case, all they are doing is talking in circles. They want the same things, they care about each other, she knows the idea of life without him isn’t one she wants to think about. And in the same breath she has to admit the idea of being with someone like that is also one she’s not sure how to think about. She’s not sure either of them knows how to think about it. If she had any hope of the Fingers going, the feeling in the pit of her stomach tells her that’s a fool’s hope.

“I don’t think talking is going to help,” she admits finally, “we want the same things. We care about each other. You’ve turned everything upside down,” she shakes her head, “I suppose we’ve done that for each other.”

“You’re still afraid.”

“But not as afraid as I was,” she says, “and not of you,” she bites her lower lip, “are you? Afraid?”

He shakes his head.

“You said you didn’t want what another Fey—a proper Fey—could give you,” he says, “you’ve never lied to me. I believe you. I know you need time,” he looks at her in a way that feels like he sees beyond her skin and into her core, “I’m not going anywhere.”

She half wants to scold him for the promise he’s making so brashly. Of anyone who could go, she would have chosen him. Though between her absence of the prophecy and the sickness and the Hidden that feel as though they may drive her mad, she has to admit she’s equally likely to be the one that goes first. The thought makes her stomach twist. Especially the part where one of them is left behind.

All she can do is place her hand back in his and focus on that until the Fingers finally give way.

There’s a knock on the door and Lancelot looks at her before helping her to her feet. Their hands remain joined until right before they open the door, when they release their grip. Immediately Pym feels her skin stir and fights against it, especially when she sees Lancelot flex his fingers. On the other side of the door, Kaze looks at both of them.

“Good to see you back alive,” she says, “Guinevere’s on her way back, Gawain’s vines went down.”

Pym feels her heart jump and looks to see if either of them is panicking before remembering who they are. Neither looks thrilled at the thought. Kaze nods towards the throne room and turns. Pym grips her hands together before looking at him. He looks at her steadily and she tries to take some comfort in that before he offers her his hand. It’s easy to say that it’s because they need to pretend.

But there’s no pretending in how much better she feels when their hands are together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented, left kudos or messaged me. Your feedback means the world and helps me so much. See you in the next chapter!


	118. Spark: Part 35

The shadows in their faces have an eerie resemblance that Lancelot finds more off putting than the smell.

He can pick out the similarities there, but Druids don’t smell the same as Fey, it’s more muddied. Less sharp. He’s grateful that he doesn’t have to focus on it for long and can focus on the bright smell of Pym’s scent. Hers is sharp and overpowering thanks to her haywire emotions. The Fingers loop over her face as she looks at the exchange between relatives. Though by all logic, they should have expected this. Merlin should have expected this.

It’s laughable that any of them thought 700 years of debauchery would have only yielded one daughter.

Merlin’s joy is heavily bittersweet and deeply troubling. His fingers still shake as he touches her but Medraut takes every touch with reverence. With joy. Lancelot doesn’t believe her for a moment but Merlin does. He has to give her some measure of credit. This is a nerve that is exposed for many of them. It’s a baited trap and one that he would have laid himself to lure them in. They are all orphans and childless parents. He’s irrationally and selfishly glad when he looks at Bors and Squirrel and sees the open revulsion on their faces. Even though when Bors looks over and catches his eye, he immediately looks away. Bedivere is with them and though his face is neutral, he seems far more interested in something else. He follows his line of sight to Pym’s white knuckled grip on his hand.

Lancelot, belatedly, remembers he forgot to tell him about his pretend marriage. 

There’s nothing fake about how she grips his hand, trying to steady herself while railing against her own emotions. Every time her fingers tighten, it sets off something in him. Something like a very fine blade. It hurts worse than it has any right to. Pym is strong, stronger than she usually gives herself credit for, but this is a new thing and one she is ill prepared for. He had the luxury of realizing that the Paladins were wrong about many things before he began unleashing Fire. Nothing has happened to make Pym truly change her mind about the Hidden that now whisper around her. There is nothing he can say. Even if he was good at such things. For all that she stresses words and speaking, none of them truly seem to be working at the moment. The only thing that seems to help is physical contact and even that seems to work best on her terms.

When he brushes his thumb across her knuckle the effect is immediate and it seems to startle her.

It reminds him of Moon Wings.

He will always be surprised at how easily they chaffed and how quickly they burned. Even the children he tried to spare largely seemed not to make it out unscathed. Moon Wing silk is incredibly strong but the Folk themselves were not. He’s never been good with handling delicate things. There have been precious few in his life. Everything truly delicate has been surrounded by a hard shell of ornamental gold or thick glass, preserved against time and clumsy hands. It took years to even be able to handle those protective casings, forget the Relics inside.

“What happened?” He asks Morgana.

“He stopped, turned his head and took off,” she mutters back, “I tried to stop him but he’s fast,” she says, “once he got there, he was thrilled.”

“He cried,” Tristain supplies, “She acted shocked. I couldn’t stop him without catching Gawain’s vines.”

Lancelot isn’t surprised to hear Tristain immediately understand that the Druid isn’t good news. He looks around and sees Gawain standing off to the side. His head is lowered and he looks infuriated still. Lancelot has rarely seen that look on his face. Especially not since he passed. His eyes don’t move from the exchange of Druids hugging and Lancelot spares a moment of annoyance for how quickly this one has managed to get to right where she wants to be.

“How are they related?”

“She’s his daughter,” Morgana says, doing nothing to disguise the disgust in her voice.

“So Nimue’s half sister,” Pym says tightly. She’s guessed it but hearing it from someone else seems to make things worse.

“We should—“ He begins.

“We’re staying,” Pym shoots back.

“Then you need to calm down,” he mutters back, “focus on me.”

Tristain and Morgana trade looks and he does his best to ignore it, looking only at Pym. They also are not aware of the fake marriage they’ve come up with. It’s something to worry about at another time, they’re both smart enough to go along with it if asked. Keeping Pym’s gaze, he draws in a deeper than usual breath and she catches up to the rhythm, imitating it. Her Fingers slowly lose their sharp edges, thought they don’t vanish entirely. She looks far less mad though, if only to a passing glance. He can tell she is still angry, even without registering the feeling of the indents her nails have left on his skin. Pym seems to have realized it though and looks down at their hands, almost going to pull away from his grip.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Don’t say that,” she mutters back, “I hurt you, no matter how little it registers.”

He gets the feeling that she isn’t just talking about holding his hand too tightly. But he ignores the way it makes his heart stumble and focuses instead on the Druids. He repeats Arthur’s words back to himself.

“You didn’t,” he promises. He glances at her again, “you did nothing wrong.”

He cannot begrudge her the concerns she has. The fact that this is something they can speak about at all is nothing short of miraculous. His eyes drag over to Bors again, or in his general area. He knows staring at the boy wouldn’t be taken well. While Bors being his relative is important, the mixed heritage that’s always been there makes him think of the future. Even he knows it’s relatively rare to mix different kinds of Folk. It’s almost taboo among the Fey. Or it was. But Bors is a living example of it. Of everything that they will ultimately achieve in this new world.

“It can’t be this simple,” Pym says, focused still on the Druids, “the things she did—“

“She did little, the others were trying to protect me,” he starts. She glares at the Druids and then at him, he knows it would be easier to agree but he can’t do that just to placate her. Not like this, “she’s dangerous. Keeping her out there would be a mistake.”

“So we keep her close instead?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. He doesn’t want to keep her close, but he can already see her embedding herself in Merlin’s skin. It’s not an accident that silvery vines have emerged across her flesh. As he looks more, he thinks the silver embroidery on the underside of her cloak isn’t a mistake either.

“What did Guinevere say?” He asks, turning to Tristain.

“She reached out to Merlin before we got very far,” she says, folding her arms.

“Did she recognize her?”

“No,” she says, “but that doesn’t mean anything. She could have joined with Cumber after she left.”

If that’s the case Medraut could have been working for Cumber and the Fey at the same time. Or bringing them together. For anyone else that would seem noble, but after feeling her in his head Lancelot takes no comfort in whatever she’s trying to do. It’s too calculated. He’s glad that the others seem to think that. Or at least Morgana and Tristain do. Guinevere is harder to decipher. He doesn’t know why it fees like a crack is appearing, but he resolves that it’s not going to grow deeper. Not because of a Druid who happens to be related to Merlin. Pym takes a shuddering breath as she watches the exchange. He sees Morgana move slightly towards Tristain.

“You need a bath,” Tristain says abruptly.

“I what?” Pym says.

“A bath. You smell like death,” she glances up at Lancelot with familiar disdain, “not all of us are masochists.”

While he wants to object, he realizes that first off she hasn’t bathed in days. And second that everyone else has cleaned up but her. More importantly than either of those things, he wants her away from the exchange happening. Medraut seems able to dig up any control she has. Probably because of her resemblance to Nimue—both physically and magically. He think the Hidden may also be playing a role, he cannot imagine that the Hidden are not interested in another Druid. If they are looking for the strongest carrier, he can see how the new Druid may be an appealing choice.

“Oh, I didn’t realize—“ she starts and looks up at him, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, glancing at Tristain, “you don’t smell.”

“Still, she’s probably right,” Pym says.

Lancelot nods and gives her hand a final squeeze. Over her shoulder, Tristain shoots Morgana a look and Morgana rolls her eyes before both fix their faces calmly to escort Pym off. The air changes and he knows that it’s not an accident that no-one reacts to them walking off. He flexes his hand and wonders at how it feels noticeably cold without hers in it. Without so much as a word, he watches as Merin and Medraut walk off together in conversation. Guinevere swears and leaves shortly after them, dragging Arthur with her. Lancelot wastes no time in following them.

“Is she a Raider or with the Ice King?”

“She claims she’s with the Fey,” Guinevere says, not stopping as they walk into a different room. Lancelot can smell something different about this room and she closes the door, leaving the three of them alone, “you didn’t mention she was his daughter.”

“We weren’t sure,” Lancelot says.

“Pym looked like a ghost.”

He nods, unable to respond. Guinevere lets out a breath and folds her arms. For once she doesn’t look at the map. She looks out the window. Lancelot supposes that makes sense, there’s no need to worry about the future enemies when there are enemies right in your own gates.

“Merlin’s not strong enough to see what’s going on,” Guinevere says, “if she’s been at Cumber’s court, she might be on their side.”

“The other Fey are afraid,” Lancelot says, “Hector and Jonah are.”

“We’re stretched thin as it is,” Guinevere says. Arthur nods, “Cumber is trying to target the ships coming in and our supplies, the Church is focusing on the roads. Merlin’s magic is compromised—“

“How do we know that?” Lancelot interrupts.

“His magic is tied to the Sword,” Arthur says, “and I don’t know how to command it.”

It’s something Lancelot has thought might be the case, but hearing it is worse. Especially if Medraut is position to be a temptation for so many. But also uniquely valuable. They’ll need a miracle to take Camelot, but God is not the only one capable of such things. Though His are the miracles Lancelot knows to deal with. The King of Lies also gives them. Usually looking like they cost nothing when they cost everything.

“We shouldn’t trust her,” Lancelot says. He knows it might come off as hypocritical, considering not very long ago he was the one standing there being told not to be judged, “her intentions are not good and she’s too well positioned.”

“He’s right,” Arthur says, “if she’s got the Fey Queen’s blood—“

“She doesn’t. She’s a Druid,” Guinevere points out, “she’s got no claim to the Fey.”

“The same could be said for either of you,” Lancelot admits.

“Then Pym is our best chance.”

Lancelot knows that it’s not that simple. He’s not sure Guinevere or Arthur are aware of the issues going on. Pym is still learning to be comfortable with her own authority—she’s still learning to be comfortable with her own feelings and wants. The Hidden have set off something in her head that has everything being felt more keenly. If not for the Hidden, he’s not sure she would have brought up her feelings about them as a couple.

“They’ll view her as compromised because of her association with me,” he says. Guinevere and Arthur trade looks, “most of the Fey there are refugees from homes I helped burn down,” he looks at them, “no matter what I’ve done, it won’t bring thaeir loved ones back.”

“And they think you’re married,” Guinevere says. He nods, “you two have a knack for making things far more complicated than they need to be—just by breathing around each other.”

He cannot argue with that and he sees Arthur try to hide a chuckle with a poorly done cough.

Neither of them suggests that there is an easy way to solve that problem. Lancelot has sworn his loyalty to Guinevere and the Fey, but as long as Pym wants him that will be where his ultimate loyalty lies. He has faith that she wants him still, that she holds that they are family even while they figure out the rest of what is happening between them.

“Right now Pym needs to learn to control her powers,” he says, “I’m going to be held against her, but she cannot hide how that makes her feel.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” Guinevere says.

“She needs to,” Lancelot replies, “the other Fey have a right to their anger. But I think Medraut will prey on it,” Guinevere blows out a frustrated breath, “Pym cannot negotiate with a spear like you can.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Guinevere mutters, “what do you suggest?”

Lancelot doesn’t have an answer for that. Much as he wishes that he did. He wishes he knew how to help her. In a more effective way than just standing there and holding her hand. But the Hidden seem to tie up with her emotions. Pym is upset a lot right now. Near death experiences, nearly losing Squirrel, deciding if she wants to be with him—none of it seems to be anything she is prepared to deal with and the Hidden seem to prey upon it.

“I don’t know,” he admits. Guinevere hangs her head but nods, “she’s still afraid of them.”

Guinevere swears but doesn’t object. Lancelot thinks everyone understands that fear. They all have different ways of dealing with it. Some bury it, some confront it, some pretend it isn’t happening. Some have ways of coping that are not good and some have ways of it that are better. The Hidden seem to dig it out of Pym no matter how she tries to bury it.

“Reuniting with Jonah hasn’t helped,” he admits.

“There’s a lot that hasn’t helped,” Guinevere says, “there’s nothing that you can think of that would help?” Lancelot shakes his head, “what about in your Faith?”

He thinks of the burning bodies and the ways that most are cleansed. He thinks of Pym’s conviction that he won’t respect her, that he’ll force his faith on their children. He looks at Guinevere who seems to almost be pleading.

“No,” he says sharply.

“Damn,” she says, “we’re going to have to find a way. We might all depend on it.”

“We could not work with them,” He offers, “send them to Avalon.”

“We may not have much of a chance of securing Camelot and taking on the Church and Cumber without more fighters,” Arthur voices, “and we can’t guarantee Merlin won’t go with his daughter.”

Lancelot wishes that he could object but he knows Arthur has a point. Arthur understands these things probably better than anyone but Merlin’s made no secret of his desire to die to be with Nimue. Lancelot hates this. He hates the idea that they could be closer to their goals, to this new world they’re trying to build, and it could have the seeds of it’s own destruction sewn right in it. It’s a sickening thought. He looks between them and realizes thee aren’t any answers here right now.

“Excuse me,” he says abruptly.

“Where are you—“ Guinevere starts and stops when Arthur nudges her.

Lancelot pays them no heed as he heads back to the room, already knowing that’s where Pym will be. He barely glances over when Arthur falls into step besides him.

“You know that taking about you two isn’t what’s upsetting her, right?” He says.

“It’s complicated,” Lancelot says. He sees Arthur’s face fall, “we’re waiting for her to sort her feelings out,” he says finally.

Relief shows on Arthur’s face.

“Oh good,” he says, “not good that you have to wait, but good you aren’t waiting for all of—“ Lancelot stops dead and Arthur nearly collides with him, “this,” he finishes, “are you alright?”  
  
“She’s cleaning up and I need to speak to her alone.”

“I was just checking on you, I’m not going to follow you into seeing Pym in a bath,” Arthur says. Lancelot nods, “not that you should either, you’re not—“

“We shouldn’t talk about this here,” Lancelot cuts in. He doesn’t know where Medraut is. Arthur seems to realize the same and nods, “no-one is seeing her like that,” Lancelot adds.

“You’re going to eventually,” Arthur points out. Lancelot looks at him blankly, “you said you knew how this worked,” Arthur hisses to him.

“I—“ Lancelot starts and cuts himself off. Reminding himself that is a discussion for another time, “I do,” he says firmly, “but now isn’t the time.”

“Right,” Arthur says but doesn’t look fully convinced.

Lancelot turns and walks away. He understands the mechanics of it, he’s bathed with Pym before but they kept their eyes firmly away from one another. He doesn’t know why the idea of her seeing him bare is something that makes him freeze or the idea of seeing her like that is a strange one. But it feels very similar to when he woke up and she was on the other side of a curtain and he had no idea what to do with that information. Things are different. And he cannot afford to turn into Arthur, dreaming about romantic things like honor and love when there is a present danger. He raps on the door.

“Come in,” she says and he comes inside.

She sits on the bed, looking lost in thought and miserable at the same time. She’s been half braiding and undoing the same strands for a while now, if the curled edges of her hair are any indication, but it doesn’t seem to bring her any comfort. After a final attempt, she lets out a frustrated sigh and drags her fingers through her hair, freeing the tresses. Her hair curls slightly from the touch while it was damp, but the fire catches it and makes him think of the painting again.

“I hate this,” she mutters. He looks at her, “I hate feeling so out of control. It’s like I don’t even know where I start. It just keeps getting worse.”

“You’ll learn,” he says.

“I don’t know if I can,” she admits, “I’m not like Nimue or Medraut. I don’t know how to have this. It feels like I’m not me unless I try very hard.”

Lancelot wishes that it didn’t sound familiar. He’s spent most of his life not feeling like himself unless he tries very hard. Unless he pushes everything aside and focuses. Even then, for so long it’s felt like something forbidden. Something he should know better than to do.

Guinevere’s words come back to him.

It’s not something he’s wanted to think about.

He can honestly say this is not something that has even crossed his mind in a forbidden way. Not like those moments when he realizes that she’s beautiful or he asks for help. It’s crossed her mind and after the things she knows he’s done, he can’t blame her for thinking it might lurk there. But he knows deep down she doesn’t think it, that she knows he respects her too much to even consider such a thing.

“I have an idea,” he admits. She whips around so quickly, he nearly gets hit with her hair and looks up at him desperately, “there’s a rite that might help you push them away or quiet them.”

“Why do you sound nervous?” She asks.

“it’s a Catholic rite. Father Bedivere would have to do it,” he admits, “I don’t want you to think that this is something I wanted for you.”

“It’s not burning me, is it?” She asks, trying to smile but not really succeeding. He fights the urge to shudder at the thought and shakes his head.

“He would Baptize you,” he says. She looks confused for a moment before thinking of what he’s saying. He’s told her before, but not often. It takes her a moment to think of the ritual but when she does, she seems less horrified than he was anticipating, “it may help you push them back. Until you can control your connection, but ignoring it—“

“I don’t want to risk them going to Medraut,” she says.

He nods.

“But I would rather them go to her than risk you being hurt more,” he admits.

She exhales shakily.

“What does that mean?”

“It frees you of original sin,” he says, “I’d hope it would help you get yourself back.”

She looks nervous but nods again, the fact that she doesn’t immediately dismiss the idea and trusts him to listen is humbling. It’s not something he would suggest lightly, it’s not something he wants to suggest at all. But he can feel her desperation growing. And her frustration. And her despair. He has every faith that she can do this, but he also knows that until she believes it, he cannot tell her otherwise.

“Would Bedivere do it?” She asks, “knowing I cannot fully join your Faith?”

“We can speak to him,” he says, “but yes, I think he would,” he tells her, “he’s the only one I would trust.”

“But not yourself?”

He shakes his head. She looks at him curiously and reaches for his hand, joining their fingers together. He still believes, he’s separating out what is his belief and what is the poisonous teaching that was pushed upon him. But he cannot claim to be a Man of the Cloth. No matter the brand lurking in his hair. He cannot profess that his dedication to the Church is all encompassing in that way. Bedivere was right, he cannot keep the vows he made. Not now. Not now that he’s sitting next to her with their hands joined together. She must know it too. She closes her eyes and lowers her head before looking up at him.

“It’s worth a conversation, at least,” she says.

“I’ll talk to him—“

“I want to talk to Morgana first,” she cuts in, “then Bedivere. But I need to talk to Morgana.”

He nods.

“Anything you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented, kudosed or messaged me, I appreciate it so much. And thank you to everyone whose taken the time to read the story, I'm so grateful. Onwards!


	119. Spark: Part 36

“Why?”

Pym is irrationally grateful that the first question isn’t if she’s lost her mind. Though she’s sure that would be a fair question if she had asked it. Even thought it hasn’t come out of her mouth, Morgana’s face is struggling to be neutral.

“I need help,” Pym admits, “with the Hidden. I can’t do this. Not like this.”

“You’re scared,” Morgana states, “Nimue was too. She learned not to be—“

“Nimue didn’t have a chance not to be,” Pym says.

Morgana winces and Pym tastes bitterness. It’s shocking how quickly everything happened. How much happened so fast. Nimue handled it, but Pym knows she was scared. Morgana knows it too. Being scared isn’t the problem Pym has. She’s scared, but she also knows deep down there’s something more happening. She cannot tread water over the Hidden for the rest of her life. But she’s not sure how she’s supposed to co-exist with them. That’s something she knows Morgana understands. But the frustration on Morgana’s face gives her pause.

“Is he making you do this?”

“No! Of course not,” Pym says.

“Are you certain? You know more about the Faith than most Fey.”

“That’s because I was trying to get him to talk!” Pym says, “his Faith was the only thing he seemed comfortable talking about. He needed the practice,” she remarks, “but he only knows about it as a—“

“Man?” Morgana finishes. Pym nods, feeling her face get hot, “I didn’t want to become a nun,” Morgana points out, “the Faith considers both of us to be traitors,” she sighs, “for different reasons.”

Pym nods, she doesn’t even entertain the suggestion that Lancelot is trying to convert her. If Morgana saw his face when he suggested this, she would know that was the farthest thing from his mind. She knows that he would respect her decision no matter what she did. She knows that she needs to do something or she’s going to lose her mind. Or worse. But she’s not sure if this is the way. She’s not sure if she’s come to Morgana to talk her out of it or to find some flaw or just to test herself. She’s sure of very few things these days.

“You shouldn’t do this for him—for anyone,” Morgana says, “and you shouldn’t be forced into it. Even in the way that I was,” something dark flickers across her face, “or Lancelot was.”

“I know,” she says.

“I had an Abbess, her name was Nora. She was the one who started rescuing Fey by bringing them to the convent,” Morgana says, “she hated the Church, she said they had become corrupted. That God and His Son would be ashamed,” she folds her arms, “she was proud of her Faith. She said that was why she helped the Fey, not in spite of it but because that was what her Faith told her to do. She was good and kind,” Morgana admits, her tone somehow fond and grading, “she made us proud to be what we were.”

“She sounds wonderful,” Pym says.

“She was,” Morgana’s face hardens, “Iris saw she was burned like the rest of of my sisters.”

Pym swallows tightly.

She remembers the blood spilling from Iris’s neck and the blank look as she fell. No, not blank. She was afraid. Pym thinks of all the nuns and how they must have died. She wonders if any of them took comfort in their Faith or if it was even possible to do so when fires were licking at you. She doesn’t understand how so many people could die trapped in their homes like that. All in the name of a God that is supposed to be something very different. She cannot fathom the one Lancelot has told her about being alright with any of this. It seems far more like what the Hidden do. She looks down at her hands, wondering how she seems to have gotten burns from each side of this conflict.

“I’m sorry.”  
  
Morgana nods.

“Not to put more pressure on you, but you know that you’re supposed to be a Summoner. The Summoner. Won’t being Baptized go against that?”

“I can’t be a Summoner like this,” Pym says. Morgana looks at her curiously, “I can’t. I feel like—“ she doesn’t have the words for anyone. She doesn’t know how to describe herself.

“Like it’s not just you in there?”

She doesn’t know how to describe herself to anyone but Morgana. It clicks as she’s looking at her, remembering that it’s not just Morgana in front of her. Even past the hovering between this world and the next, there’s something else in her. She understands in a way that Pym thinks no-one else might be able to. Morgana’s face softens and something close to pity shows on her face before her features seem to close off. It’s eerily similar to how Lancelot gets sometimes. Given how they both functioned, she knows it shouldn’t surprise her. But sometimes it catches her off guard all the same.

“Baptizing you won’t change that,” Morgana says.

“I know,” Pym agrees, “but it would help.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can’t explain,” Pym says, “but if it will help push them back—“

“You don’t know that it will,” Morgana points out, “it could force this on someone else. They could kill you. You have no idea if this is going to do anything, let alone anything good.”

Pym wishes that did not make so much sense. For some reason her mind wanders back to meeting the Red Spear, back to that first day on the battlefield when Arthur had tried to stop her and she’d gone into the tent to find Lancelot there. So many times she hadn’t known if something was going to be a good idea, if it was going to work at all. Or if she was going to wind up somewhere so much worse.

But then she thinks about watching Gawain sail away. She thinks about that moment in the tent where she thought about staying with all the others who were captured. She thinks about watching Nimue sink below the waves. Things can be worse, but if you’re moving at least you’re doing something. The idea of sitting and just hoping things will get better makes her feel like she might be sick.

“It feels like I’m losing against them,” she admits quietly, “I’d rather risk it than let myself die in my own head. I know that’s selfish—“

“There’s nothing wrong with you wanting to survive,” Morgana cuts in, “you chose to be here. You chose to live. You could have gone to Avalon and you said you wanted to be here and go on adventures. Not waste away in your own head,” Morgana shudders before fixing her again with her gaze, “did you try reaching out to Nimue?”

“Nimue’s doing enough,” Pym says quickly.

“You’re her best friend, she would want to protect you,” Morgana argues.

Pym shakes her head, pressing her lips together. She can’t add to the burden Nimue has. She has no idea if what she’s about to do will add to it, but at least then she’ll be trying rather than burdening Nimue. Nimue has so many people to protect. Pym refuses to add to that. She can figure this out. Morgana gives a frustrated sigh.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Morgan admits, “I’m not going to tell you to go be a part of the Church instead of going to your friend or because of some boy—“  
  
“Lancelot isn’t making me do this.”

“So why aren’t you discussing it with him?”

“Because—“

“Because?”

“Because I told him I didn’t believe him when he said he wouldn’t force me to be a good Christian wife,” Pym says.

Morgana looks truly surprised and heartbreakingly like the girl that rode with Nimue. Some mix of disgust and frustration clouds her before she tries to pull it back. But whether that’s because it’s Lancelot or she’s just got no patience for things like this, Pym isn’t sure.

“Why were you two talking about you being his wife?” She asks. Pym glances away, head building in her cheeks. Morgana rolls her eyes, “so this is about that.”

“No,” Pym says, “we talked. Then I kept losing control. Then I asked him for help and then he talked to Arthur and Guinevere and had the idea,” Morgana looks skeptical, “he said he would respect me.”

“You know if you marry him he doesn’t have to do anything,” she points out, “even if Guinevere gave women property rights—“

“I don’t have any property,” Pym mutters, somehow the wound of her missing dowery still stings. Morgana looks at her for a moment and then laughs loudly, “that doesn’t matter—“

“You think Guinevere wouldn’t give you anything you asked for?” Morgana says, “any land you wanted?” Pym frowns, “did you not consider that? You could have every man here tripping over themselves to marry you for her favor or the wealth she’d give you. You don’t have to marry him.”

  
“Morgana—“

“You don’t,” Morgana repeats, “you could marry anyone if you’re worried about your choices. Even if you two had fucked, you could have enough to buy anyone’s silence.”

“We haven’t,” Pym starts.

“Oh well that’s easier then. Not that it matters to me but if you wanted to marry,” she continues.

“Well I—“

  
“Just obviously not to him,” she adds, sounding relived, “can you imagine?” Pym feels her throat tighten, “well I’m glad he’s not forcing you or anything but—“ Morgana trails off, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Pym says quickly, trying to get herself back under control but there’s a whisper under her skin, “oh no.”

Morgana’s face falls and Pym knows that she didn’t mean to upset her. Nothing she said was that bad. But the conversation has still managed to do it anyway. She can feel that the Fingers aren’t the angry ones, but they’re close. She feels them trembling across her skin, as though they too cannot make up their mind if they are upset or not. It’s the worst feeling, to not know how you feel or to be afraid of yourself. She’s always been afraid of the Hidden and now it’s impossible to tell what is the Hidden and what is her sometimes.

“Does that always happen now when you’re upset?” Pym nods, “I only saw it with Nimue when she used the sword or she was really angry.”

“Nimue was made for this,” Pym says, “she was always meant to be a Summoner, she always had the Hidden’s favor,” she desperately wishes that Nimue was here, even more than usual. She would be able to figure this out, “I’m not like that.”

“You could be,” Morgana says, “if—“

“I need help,” Pym cuts in. Morgana presses her lips together, “I can’t be any kind of leader or learn if there’s nothing of me left at the end of this.”

Pym doesn’t ask if this is selfish, she knows the answer. If she was a better, selfless person perhaps she would be able to sacrifice herself for this cause. To let the Hidden continue this way. But she isn’t. She doesn’t want to bring about Merlin’s prophecy. She doesn’t want to be the girl on the docks watching everyone sail away. She does not want this. She wants to be herself.

“This isn’t going to change that,” Morgana says.

“But it might give me a chance,” Pym says.

Morgana sighs.

  
“Wanting to be saved is the only reason to have a Baptism,” she says. Pym looks at her, “let’s just hope the Hidden don’t do anything to you because of it. If you go through with it,” Pym tries to calm her heart, “but if this is because of a boy—“

“It’s not,” Pym repeats.

“Good.”

As she walks off, Pym hates that it doesn’t feel like the whole truth. She’s not doing this for him. But Lancelot has a unique ability to make her want to live. To be more. To believe she is more. And she’s not sure she would be considering this if he hadn’t managed that. It’s not just him, it’s him and Guinevere and Kaze and Dof and even Aaron—there are a lot of people who make her feel like enough. Maybe it’s just because she spends the most time with Lancelot. Or maybe because it feels like he needs her too. Or maybe—

“Pym?”

She looks up from her thoughts to see Bedivere waiting for her. He looks puzzled, but he’s clearly looking for her. She doubts Lancelot has said anything except she wants to talk to him.

“How are Hector and Jonah?” She asks.

“Alright,” he says, “I’m not sure they need to be locked up like this, but I suppose until we get it sorted out there’s a sense to it,” she nods, “how are you?”

“Did Lancelot tell you?” She asks.

“No,” Bedivere says, “just that you might want to speak to me,” he hesitates for a moment, “he seemed—concerned.”

Pym almost smiles at the notion of what a concerned Lancelot must look like to Bedivere. Their closeness has grown but she doubts that it’s easy to read his emotions. Concerned Lancelot also tends to hyper focus and be driven by one thought. He doesn’t seem to particularly care about what happens until the task he’s been set is done. Even when—or especially when—he is the one setting the task.

“I wanted to talk to you about being Baptized,” she admits.

Whatever Bedivere is expecting, that was not it. He seems truly shocked but he quickly pushes it aside. It’s like watching Lancelot put his emotions away, though Bedivere isn’t as good at it. She can still see the surprise on his face, but she appreciates him trying to hide it.

“I became a Summoner, a proper one,” she says, “but this doesn’t feel like me. It feels like something else is in there. Lancelot said that this might help.”

“Baptism is about saving your soul,” Bedivere says, “it’s also committing to our Faith. Are you sure that’s something you want?”

“I don’t want to give up everything,” she says, “but from what you and Lancelot have said, we believe a lot of the same things. When it matters,” she admits, “but I don’t want to commit to your Church.”

“I don’t think either of us are committed to that either,” Bedivere says.

“Have you ever done this with a Fey?” She asks tentatively.

“No,” Bedivere admits, “the only ones I know of would be Lancelot and Tristain. And those are complicated,” he looks at her, “you would be the first.”

It almost makes her chuckle. She’s never been the first in many things. She’s always been more content to hang back. Even if some part of her has always yearned for it. She knows that Tristain and Lancelot came to this under very different circumstances. Morgana as well. But neither of them has judged her for it or called her mad. She doesn’t know if Trstain will but she has a feeling it will be because she is angry about something else.

“Would you do it?” Pym asks.

“If it was what you wanted, if you wanted to be saved,” he says. Pym catches her lip in her teeth and Bedivere goes paler, “I suppose there’s no good way of saying that,” she shakes her head, “but yes, if that was what you wanted.”

“Even if the situation is more complicated?”

He nods.

“I think we can say that part is on us,” he says, “do you have questions about what would happen?”

“Lancelot’s told me,” Pym admits.

“Would you have a problem with your children knowing about the Faith or being baptized?” He asks, “or would your husband—“ Pym feels the heat creep up her face and Bedivere trails off, clearing his throat, “right, I suppose that’s a foolish question.”

“No,” she says, “I wouldn’t have a problem with them knowing about his Faith,” she looks down at her fingers, “my problem is with the Church.”

“I’m afraid they’re too linked,” Bedivere says, “but perhaps that can change.”

Pym hopes so.

They all do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented, kudosed or messaged me on Tumblr. Your feedback means so much to me. Work has been crazy so I thank you for your patience and I hope the next update comes faster. Onwards!


	120. Spark: Part 37

It’s a thick, tense sort of silence as they appraise each other. Lancelot stands between them wondering if the other Fey would think it’s madness that he’s in charge of making sure they all come out of this alive. To have caused so much death, it’s a strange change of pace.

“How did he survive?” Tristain asks.

“He pushed me off a cliff,” Hector says, drawing her attention. She arches an eyebrow, “I hid after that.”

“You must be good at hiding.”

Hector shrugs but neither of them looks calmer around the other. Both look like they don’t trust each other. Lancelot solely wishes that disarming them was as easily done as it usually is. But Hector seems to be the most skilled with his Fire while Tristain seems to have the strongest flame. It will be difficult if either of them lose control. Hector’s eyes flick to her fingertips and her marks in a way that is no accident and Tristain bristles.

“We’re both newer to using the Fire,” Lancelot cuts in. Hector looks at him, “I’ve had more opportunity to practice.”

“He defected earlier,” Tristain remarks.

Lancelot is half surprised that she doesn’t outright call him a traitor. He wonders what brought her to that. Admittedly, saying he defected is not much better. But it’s still a kinder term than he’s used. Hector has yet to judge him for defecting, he seems to accept that Tristain is not with the Church either.

“Do you know of any others?” Hector asks.

“No,” Tristain says, “I didn’t know anyone was protected like we were.”

Its a strange thing to hear. It is the truth, but he hasn’t heard it framed that way. He’s tried to understand the logic of his own parents actions, but somewhere deep down he thinks of Tristain’s parents and knows their actions make more sense. He thinks of his own actions with Squirrel. He was only being asked to watch and he was unable to do that. He had no way of knowing how that was something that he had carried from his life before.

He was unable to watch them hurt Hector, even when they were both boys.

“And he doesn’t remember,” Tristain adds and Lancelot is almost relieved at the disgust in her voice.

“I would have remembered another Ash Fey,” Lancelot says, “my nose was not blocked by a mask.”

Tristain’s eyes narrow at the insult but Hector lets out a soft snort of laughter, looking between them with a measure of amusement. Lancelot doesn’t see what’s amusing about this and from the look of it, neither does Tristain. It occurs to Lancelot that he’s seen Tristain and Bors laugh about the same number of times. That if you switched Tristain’s anger and Bors’ fear, there are more similarities than differences.

“So it’s us then,” Hector says, “the last of the Ash Folk. For now.”

“Until one of you has children,” Tristain remarks.

“Or you.”

She snorts and looks away, seeming oddly uncomfortable.

“I’m the closest to having children,” Lancelot says before anyone can say something. Or Tristain can bring up the lie. That isn’t one. Not unless Hector is hiding someone. He doesn’t contradict it but nods.

“You’re the oldest,” he adds.

Tristain’s sour look is back though Lancelot knows he has no control over that. But anything that puts him as above Tristain in any way is something she doesn’t like. Even being the oldest. Or the tallest. Probably even having the longest cloak. It’s a strange thing to be the oldest, he’s used to being surrounded by senior leaders of the Paladins, the ones who were allowed to interact with him. Peers like Bedivere were farther in between, especially the ones who would act like he was more than a tool or a weapon.

He smells Pym before she arrives, but as their eyes all move towards where she’s coming he realizes he’s not the only one. He doesn’t know why this of all things makes his guts twist. Having more Ash Fey is useful. Seeing them identify Pym is also useful. But it makes his gut knot anyway, like he’s swallowed something solid and heavy. The feeling only eases when she appears with Bedivere. His friend’s appearance reminds him this is not the first time he’s felt this feeling where Pym and the others are concerned.

“Oh, there you are,” she says, taking in the sight of the Ash Fey all staring at her, “it’s strange seeing all of you in one place.”

“I guess that’s something we’ll have to get used to,” Hector says, “since we’ve all been playing cat and mouse for so long.”

“I want to talk to him,” Tristain declares, fixing Pym with a hard look, “so you and Lancelot are going to have to go if he’s the one you’re looking for.”

Pym immediately goes red and Lancelot looks at Tristain who raises her chin. She gets along better with Pym than with most of them, but Hector isn’t allowed to roam freely. He supposes that Tristain understands that too. If they had a cell when he had arrived, he may have found himself there as well. Lancelot glances at Bedivere who steps forward with a quick nod to him.

“I was hoping to speak to Jonah,” he says, “I can keep an eye on them.”

Tristain makes a noise of displeasure but there’s little to be done about it. Hector smiles and Lancelot wonders where he’s gotten his sense of humor. He doesn’t seem bothered by being in the cell or by Tristain’s reaction or any of this. Lancelot tries not to hope too much that it’s because they’ve been reunited, but it’s a hard thing to stamp out entirely. Especially when Hector gives him a fond look and nods towards Pym, as though he understands something he cannot possibly comprehend. Lancelot pushes the guilt away, he’ll tell Hector soon. For now he has to trust Bedivere.

  
“Let’s go,” he says to Pym, “hopefully Hector will be out soon.”

“Like that will stop you two from sneaking off,” Tristain says.

“I suppose we won’t be the only Ash Fey for very long,” Hector adds.

  
Lancelot ignores them both and walks with Pym away from the cells.

She’s quiet for a moment until they’re out of earshot.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” She offers.

Lancelot looks at her, realizing he shouldn’t be surprised it’s obvious. He watches her cheeks turn pink. She looks embarrassed and it occurs to him that she may think what’s wrong is their previous conversation. He doesn’t want her to think that, though if it was that he imagines he would tell her anyway.

“I don’t like that they can identify your scent,” he admits, “I didn’t like that Bedivere was so close to you when I didn’t know he was still a Priest.”

Pym looks up at him and then catches her lip between her teeth, looking somehow sympathetic and amused. Lancelot frowns as she tries to keep the smile that he can see threatening her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why?”

“I think—“ she pushes her hair back behind her ears, “I think you might be jealous,” he stares at her, “it’s alright,” she says quickly, “I felt odd about how you got on with Kaze and sometimes Guinevere and Tristain—“

“Guinevere?”

She blushes.

“You just seemed to understand each other in a way I didn’t, because you were all fighters,” she admits.

It’s a strange thing to hear because it’s nothing that’s ever crossed his mind. He understands that Guinevere, Kaze and Tristain are all desirable and they understand each other in a physical way, but what Pym is saying is something different. He’s never felt about them the way he feels about Pym. The sight of Guinevere flirting with Arthur in her own brash way doesn’t make him feel sick.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks.

“Because it’s ridiculous,” she says, “I had nothing to be jealous of. Just like you don’t have anything to be jealous of either.”

“Does it still make you uncomfortable?” He asks.

“Not anymore,” she says, “it makes me wish I could understand you like that,” she adds.

“You do.”

She looks at him skeptically.

He can’t pretend her skepticism doesn’t sting, though he knows he has to remember that there are things going on in her head he cannot understand. For all that they have been on opposite sides of the conflict, his side was the aggressor. Any one of their near misses could have resulted in her death. And he never would have been wiser for how his life could have changed because of her. He also knows she’s been betrayed by the men in her life in ways that he doesn’t understand. He’s never had his heart broken. And in the scheme of what Father was doing, being asked to breed was not the same as being told he would be sold off.

But it does sting that she seems to have trouble believing him.

“Just because we don’t spar doesn’t mean we don’t understand each other,” he says, “I don’t hold hands with any of them.”

  
That makes her smile and he wonders how it feels like a victory.

“I think you might lose one if you tried that,” she remarks.

He doubts Kaze is the only one whose taken someone’s hand, just the one who has the evidence running around. And he thinks for others, they would like to hold their hands very much. If given the opportunity. But the desire to do anything of that sort with them hasn’t stirred in him the way it did with Pym. It seems almost instinctual at this point. It’s something he doesn’t have an issue with doing, even when it feels as though he wants to crawl out of his skin with everything else. Maybe that is why he finds it so hard that others are aware of her scent. Greed is a sin he knows he shouldn’t partake in. As is coveting another. But he finds himself tempted and it doesn’t feel wicked. Not like he thinks it should.

  
“You don’t believe me,” he observes.

“It’s not that,” Pym says quickly, “there’s a difference between how I touch you and how they do when you’re sparring,” she frowns, “it’s a back and forth. It’s like you’re speaking without words,” she must see the look on his face because she tucks her hair back again, “i know you said you would teach me. But the way you all hit—“ her brows draw together, “it’s a different language.”

He doesn’t know what possesses him to take her hand before she can drop it down to her side. The action catches her off guard and he sees her breath catch. He keeps his fingers open, holding the back of her hand in his palm and looking at her. After a moment of stillness she nods, keeping her hand in his. He’s touched her hands purposefully many times, for many reasons. It always seems to have an immediate effect on her. He realized that back in the ship, the first time he initiated that kind of contact with her.

He trails his fingers up her palm, past the welted scar to the dip of the heel of her hand. Her fingers curl reflexively and her breath hitches but she keeps her hand in his, unfurling her fingers with the barest brush of his. Her hands have always been calloused but he can see the markings on them are now as strange as his. Their hands are all stained fingertips and oddly shaped scars. Hers are starburst from his Fire, his are lacework from the iron nets. There’s a symmetry to them, they compliment each other. He draws his fingers down from her thumb to her wrist and her breath catches.

“What—“

“It’s not always the most obvious strike that’s the deadliest,” he says, “or the most forceful. It’s precision. Knowing where to touch.”

Her eyes blink as though they’re trying to focus on what he’s saying, but he can smell the slight alteration in her scent as she looks up at him. And the way her lips start to flush, not as badly as her face. But they do change a bit. When she presses them together, he drags his eyes back to hers, but he’s aware they look different when she parts her lips again. Her eyes as well, the pupils narrowing her irises as she looks up at him. It’s one of those odd moments that seems to stretch on impossibly long, but he dares not break it.

Pym rips away from him and they both snap to see Squirrel there, looking equal parts outraged and hurt.

“You’re getting baptized?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented messaged/kudosed for the last chapter, I so appreciate it. You really help keep my motivation up and make me feel like I’m not writing in a void. See you next chapter!


	121. Spark: Part 38

  
  
To say Squirrel is upset is hugely misleading.

He looks devastated.

He’s still covered in herbs and wrapped in bandages, he looks almost frail. But Pym knows it’s not that simple. He’s not frail, he’s hurt. He’s scared. He’s upset. She can’t blame him for any of those feelings. She knows deep down it must hurt that they have all found relatives but he hasn’t. No matter her feelings on Jonah, she knows she’s lucky to have found him alive. They somehow manage to get him to a quieter place where he immediately stares at them both in outrage.

“That’s not fair,” he says finally, “I want to be baptized too.”

“No,” Lancelot says immediately. Squirrel goes red, “you’re too young.”

“Babies get baptized,” he argues.

“You’re too old for that.”

“Well which is it?” He demands, “Am I too young or too old?” Lancelot’s jaw tightens and Squirrel jerks his chin up, “you just don’t want me to be baptized.”

“Why do you want to be?” Pym asks.

Squirrel looks at her like he’s forgotten she’s there. She feels Lancelot focus on her as well, but she keeps her focus on Squirrel. He stares at her, still red in the face and she holds his gaze before he can round on Lancelot again. This topic is a sensitive one, more than any other she can think of. She knows that for her the choice is clear, but she cannot see Squirrel turning to the Church just by choice. Just because Lancelot is in it. Squirrel is a little older than he was when the Church took him. When they took that choice from him.

And though he will not say it, she knows that Lancelot has given up many things so that more little ones will not have to go through what he did.

“It’s not fair!” Squirrel erupts suddenly, looking close to tears, “you get to be an Ash Folk, you get to be baptized, it’s not fair,” Squirrel says, “and don’t say it’s because I’m a Knight. It’s not.”

Pym falters for a moment.

She had no idea that her stained fingertips would be a problem. Or that he would be jealous of her closeness to Lancelot. He looks at it with the eyes of a child who has seen too much, but she can tell how this has been wearing on him. She feels like a fool for not seeing it before. For getting as swept up in this as she has, though she’s tried to keep herself focused on the few Fey that are left.

“You’re right, it’s not,” Lancelot says. Pym looks at him. Squirrel rubs his eye, looking between them, “we all care about each other.”

  
“So why can’t I be like you two?” Squirrel questions, sounding almost despondent, “if we all care about each other?”

Pym looks over at Lancelot who stares back, equally at a loss for what to tell him. Pym knows they are on the cusp of something, something that she’s pushed back for a long time and something that Lancelot didn’t have the experience to name. Everyone has been understanding or they’ve made assumptions, but directly being asked is rare. She supposes that it was inevitable it would come from Squirrel. They have their peers but he is the one they spend the most time with. And the one that observes people better than most. Even back in the village, Squirrel was the one who knew things he shouldn’t. Popped up in places he wasn’t supposed to be. She should have expected that would get worse as he got older or was given more of a chance to roam.

“Lancelot and I are older. We look at the world differently—,” Pym says. Squirrel wrinkles up his face, “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s true. We’re peers, we are in a similar place in our lives. Our feelings towards each other are different.”

“I don’t understand,” Squirrel says.

She supposes there’s no tiptoeing around it. She looks at Lancelot who nods, seeming to give her permission for whatever she says next.

“We feel about each other the way your parents felt about each other,” she says.

For a moment it feels like a relief to say the words, until Squirrel’s face crumples.

“So you’re going to make your own family.”

“Of course not,” Pym says quickly, “we are a family.”

“We are,” Lancelot repeats, “Pym and I being together wouldn’t change that.”

“There are things about us being together that we need to figure out,” Pym says, “that and everything else—it’s not something I can figure out like this. I can barely control myself with the Hidden in my head like they are.”

“I could help,” Squirrel argues.

“I know you could,” Pym says, “but you have adventures to go on. I—“ she stops herself, feeling a tightness in her throat, “this is something I need to do. Does that make sense?”

Squirrel nods slowly.

“When we go back to the Island, we’ll go to the temple,” Lancelot says. Pym looks at him, “we’ll need to go back for Tristain,” he adds, “Pym and I snuck off.”

“Which we didn’t realize upset you,” she adds.

Squirrel looks very hard at the ground, looking less angry but the redness gets worse. Pym feels like she could kick herself for not realizing the effect this was having on him. Lancelot looks at her with a blank expression and she realizes that neither of them must have considered this. She’s seen Fey couples sneaking off together, sending younger siblings to be watched by older friends. But this situation isn’t that. There’s something much more devastating about what happened and their charge of Squirrel is a bit harder to define.

“We are a family,” Pym continues, “that’s the most important thing. But the difference is that we’ve chosen each other to be that. It’s something you are too young to be interested in.”

“No I’m not!” Squirrel says instantly. Lancelot gives him a skeptical look.

“Do you care for someone like that?” Pym asks. Squirrel looks at them blankly and Pym feels irrationally relieved at his confusion.

“Like what?”

“Like someone—“

“Like someone you are in love with,” Lancelot says.

Pym looks over at him, surprised he’s said the words that they keep stumbling around so easily. His eyes drag over to hers and she sees his face start to warm. She feels it in her own, as though her embarrassment matches his. And at the same time, she feels a smile tugging at her lips. Which is completely inappropriate for the situation with Squirrel so upset. She pushes her hair behind her ears and focuses back on the boy. Squirrel looks between them for another round and then his face screws up.

“Ew!” He exclaims, with all the disgust that only a child can have towards the prospect of romance, “are you two kissing?”  
  
“No,” Pym says quickly, then realizes how that sounds, “not yet.”

“Are you going to?”

“That’s—“

“Probably,” Lancelot says. Pym whips towards him and he looks at her reaction with confusion, “I mean—“

“You are too young to be worrying about what Lancelot and I are doing,” Pym says firmly. She sees Lancelot still looking confused, “but yes, that’s going to be involved.”

“Can he do that without setting things on Fire?” Squirrel asks, “like you?”

“Yes,” Lancelot says, “my Fire isn’t tied to my emotions anymore.”

“But that’s not emotional,” Squirrel says.

“That is for Lancelot and I to figure out,” Pym cuts in, fighting to keep the shrill edge out of her voice. Both of them look at her, “if we need help we will ask for it. But this is something between us. It doesn’t make us less of a family,” she continues, “and if we get married and have little ones, that won’t change us being a family. It would just mean our family has gotten bigger.”

Squirrel is quiet for a moment and Pym wonders if her cheeks are ever going to become less red or if she’s stuck like this for the rest of her life. It might be the latter. Fire isn’t something she considered when they talked about this side of things. But she knows how skilled Lancelot has become after months of intense training. It’s another thing they will have to figure out as they go forward. Right now her focus is on Squirrel who seems to be less upset, but still not thrilled with what he’s being told. He scuffs his foot against the stone and still seems upset.

“If you wish to be baptized, we can speak about that. But it’s not an impulsive decision,” Lancelot says, “You need to learn.”

  
“How did she learn?” He asks.

“When we were sneaking off,” he says. Squirrel frowns, “I can teach you,” Lancelot says.

“It’s not fair,” Squirrel mumbles again, as though it will change things.  
  
“How do we make it fair?” Pym asks. Squirrel shrugs, “well, one day we’ll be watching you fall for someone and we’ll think it’s not fair,” she says, “because that means you’ll be thinking about your own little ones,” Squirrel wrinkles up his face, “and marrying someone. And kissing them—“

“Stop it,” he whines, “no I won’t, I’ll be going off on adventures with Bors,” he argues.

“You could have both,” Lancelot says.

Squirrel blows out a breath but seems to calm down even more. Pym can’t blame him for his frustration, but she hopes that one day he can understand. Though she cannot think of a boy his age—or any little one his age—who would. But perhaps that is the beauty of childhood, things like this are usually beyond comprehension. He glances up at them before scuffing his foot again, his face turning red.

“But we’re still family? Even though we’re not related?”

“Of course we’re family,” Pym says, “blood isn’t the only thing that makes people family. Nothing you could say would change what we are to each other.”

“She’s right,” Lancelot says. Squirrel glances up at him and something quiet seems to pass between them before Squirrel nods, finally seeming to believe them. Pym almost sighs in relief but forces herself to just keep smiling at him.

“Alright,” Squirrel says. He stands there silently, with his head bowed and when his shoulders start to shake, she’s worried he’s crying until she realizes it’s something else. He looks up at them, still laughing, “I wanted to see how long you’d wait before sending me off to,” he deepens his voice until it sounds like what she thinks is Lancelot, “‘check on Bors.’”

“Go,” Lancelot says, jerking his head to the door.

She feels Lancelot’s fingers brush against her palm and Squirrel’s eyes dart there as well. He wrinkles up his nose at the sight and turns, hurrying off. Pym listens until his feet are gone before she dares look over at Lancelot. Immediately her face starts to warm up and she pushes her hair back, fighting not to get sucked into his gaze. He looks at her curiously and she feels as though she’s in Squirrel’s shoes.

  
“It’s odd to hear you say we’re in love with each other,” she admits.

“Aren’t we?” He says. She opens and closes her mouth. His expression starts to go blank and she realizes how it must seems given their earlier conversations.

“Yes!” She says, surprised at the tone of her voice. Which only makes her face grow warmer, “it’s just—odd to hear it named like that.”

“Like what?” He asks.

Though he’s confused, she becomes aware of everything very suddenly. How close they’re standing, the touch of their hands together. All the things that were happening out there. But they seem to be happening faster, as though naming the feeling has kickstarted something. Like when a pot begins to boil and suddenly the bubbles are there.

“So definitively,” she says.

“Was I wrong?”

“N-no,” she says stumbling over the words, “we’re in love,” she echoes. Much to her embarrassment, she feels the Hidden rise up in response, the Fingers fanning out across her skin. Lancelot doesn’t run from the response, he looks at her curiously, “I haven’t said that before,” she admits, “I never had the chance.”

His fingertips reach up and she nods her consent as he brushes against the blue-green that scrolls across her skin. His fingertips are feather light, but she’s hyperaware of everything. Her skin feels cold in the wake of it. He follow the lines past her jaw and down her pulse point. She feels the Fingers tremble in the wake of his touch. When he touches her shoulder, she steps forward into the embrace, resting her forehead against his chest. She doesn’t know if it’s his smell or his touch or just him, but as she stands there she feels calmness settle over her. Her racing heart slows and though she still feels the warmth in her face, it has less to do with her embarrassment and far more to do with how warm he naturally runs.

“You’re trembling,” he says.

“It’s adrenaline,” she dismisses. She feels him go to move and tightens her fingers on his shirt, “can we stay like this? Just for a moment.”

His arms go back around her and she somehow finds it easier to breathe. When he speaks she can feel it where she’s pressed against him.

“For as long as you want,” he vows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who commented, kudosed, messaged me, your feedback means the world! I said this on my Tumblr (which you can find [HERE](https://venomrps.tumblr.com/)) , but my boss quit unexpectedly so my update schedule has been very thrown off. Thank you everyone for your patience (or pretending to be patient) while I try to juggle everything, it's very appreciated. Onwards!


	122. Spark: Part 39

Gawain keeps staring at him.

Lancelot tries to pretend it’s not happening but it’s unavoidable. Gawain does not look away. It’s much closer to the way he stared at him in the mill than it is how he stared at him in the tent. There is no kindness in the look. Not even curiosity. He’s just fixed by it. He has to fight the urge to shift his weight uncomfortably. He has to remind himself that Gawain is his friend, that he’s much less likely to try and kill him than most. But the open anger is difficult to stomach.

“Did you do something?” Arthur asks, glancing over at Gawain. Lancelot shrugs. Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, “is this about—“

“Probably,” Lancelot says.

Arthur lets out a sigh that has Lancelot dragging his gaze towards him. Arthur flushes faintly and looks down before meeting Lancelot’s eyes.

“I may have thought he was in love with Nimue. We—argued before figuring it out,” Lancelot looks at him curiously, “he wasn’t,” Arthur adds, “but I don’t think he was thrilled with the prospect of us.”

Lancelot frowns. He doesn’t think Gawain is in love with Pym. But if he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of Nimue being with someone like Arthur, he can’t imagine that he’s thrilled with the idea of someone like him being there either. Arthur is a good man. Lancelot is trying to be, but his crimes are far worse than the things that Arthur has done.

“I think he’s taken it upon himself to stand in for their fathers,” Arthur offers.

“Shouldn’t that be Jonah?”

“Probably,” Arthur says, “though Guinevere might disagree,” he glances over at the Red Spear whose idly turning a knife point down into the arm of the chair she’s sitting on, “not sure who you want to negotiate with if it came to that.”

“Negotiate?”

“For a proper marriage,” Arthur says, “if you wanted to do it that way—“ he adds quickly.

Lancelot thinks about Pym’s words when it came to her dowery, how that was such a sore spot for her. She seemed particularly embarrassed by it, amidst all the other things she found disdainful and embarrassing about the prospect of an arranged marriage. Even now if she’s changed her mind on marriage, the has to do with getting to choose someone. Not have the choice be made for her. He honestly hasn’t been thinking about things like a dowery or negotiations. But he imagines that if they hadn’t crossed Pym’s mind, they will soon enough.

He’s been so intent on playing by the Fey rules in so many aspects of his life, figuring out where to bend them is a strange thing.

“Does the bridgroom usually do those?” He asks.

“Not without family,” Arthur says, “it’s usually between the parents of the couple. Or their guardians,” he says.

“We have a shortage of those,” Lancelot remarks.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Arthur says.

There’s a kindness in his voice that catches Lancelot off guard, though he knows there’s no reason for it to. Arthur would stand for him if he asked, probably even if he didn’t. But at the moment, his concern is less about the surrogate family that has been created and more about how Gawain found out. Rumors travel fast here. They travel fast everywhere. But he has a lot of trouble thinking that Squirrel has started any of them or that he’s told Gawain. The possibility his mind goes to is one that makes him feel almost sick, but it’s one he needs to consider.

As far as he’s concerned, the sooner they get the Hidden and their connection with Pym under some kind of control, the better they all will be. Regardless of whether or not she winds up baptized because of it.

“If I survive I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

“What are you surviving?” Pym asks.

“Gawain,” Arthur offers. Pym looks over at him. Gawain continues to glare.

“What’s wrong with him?” She questions, looking at Lancelot.

He fights not to squirm under her gaze.

“I think the Hidden may have told him,” he says finally.

He’s not sure himself if he’s talking about their feelings, what they told Squirrel or the prospect of her being baptized. He’s not sure if there is a clear answer. It may be all of those things. He’d like to think he’s more familiar than most with what annoys the Green Knight. And threats to those he holds dear are definitely among that. Gawain’s no fool, but there’s a difference between the rumors and growing closeness and them outright saying that they are in love with each other. He glances back at Pym, though she looks frustrated the Fingers aren’t trembling under her skin.

“That’s ridiculous,” she says, “and not for them to do. Come on” she tells him, grabbing his hand.

“What?”

“He’s not just going to sit there and glare at you when these are my decisions,” she says, “we’re going to talk to him.”

Lancelot almost object sto the ‘we’ part of things but they are already moving over to where he is. Talking to Gawain is difficult under the best of circumstances, but they have managed. Pym is annoyed though and he’s not sure he trusts himself to be the kind of peacekeeper the situation might require. Gawain tracks them perfectly so that when they arrive where he is, he’s facing them and looking right at them without any kind of adjustment. The look is more unsettling up close. It’s one of those times that Gawain looks alarmingly human in a very un-human form.

“Can we talk to you. Privately,” Pym says and though there is meant to be a question, her tone makes it so there isn’t one. Gawain inclines his head and motions for her to lead. She leads them out and into one of the smaller chapels in the building, something that isn’t lost on any of them, “what’s wrong?” She asks and it sounds more like there’s room for an answer.

“What are you doing?” Gawain asks.

“With what?”

“With him.”

The directness catches him off guard, as does the way he says it. Lancelot knows he should expect it to some level, but he’s surprised at how this disapproval stings. Though he’s sure that when Gawain asked for the help of a great fighter, it was to beat the Church. Not covert people to it. Certainly not one of his best friends. Pym raises her chin and her fingers tighten around Lancelot’s hand.

  
“This can’t be a surprise to you, you’re not that ‘beyond all this’.”

“I am here to protect you,” Gawain says.

“You can’t seriously think I need protecting from him after everything,” Pym says.

“You’re getting baptized—“

“How do you know that?” She demands, “the Hidden?” Gawain nods, “well you can tell them that is exactly why I’m doing this,” she says, “not because of Lancelot. He’s the only one whose not immediately telling me what I have to do.”

“Not yet.”

“Not ever,” Lancelot says finally, unable to listen to them argue as though he’s not standing there.

Both of them snap towards him and it’s unnerving how similar their facial expressions are. He doesn’t let go of Pym’s hand, knowing it’s helping her. But he wishes he could so he could fold his arms or do something. Gawain doesn’t look thrilled that he’s spoken up but Lancelot pushes forward. There are many things he cannot control, he’s done crimes that he will pay for until his dying day. But if Gawain’s problem is how he will treat Pym, he can lay one thing to rest.

“You can’t be sure of that—“

“Yes, I am,” Pym cuts in, “I trust him. You trust him.”

“Not to marry you!” Gawain says, “you never wanted to get married in the first place.”

“Well that changed,” Pym shoots back, “I didn’t want to be told who to marry. I want to marry him and I don’t need anyone’s approval to do it,” she says, hesitating just a second, “except his.”

“When?”  
  
“When what?”

“When did it change?”

“I don’t know!”

That surprises him. He knows he’s been surprised, but Pym has always been better at these kinds of things. Mostly. When it comes to him, he knows she’s struggled. He can’t blame her for that. For him, the path has been clear. It’s always clear. There’s usually one thing to do and only fools think there is a choice. But for all she’s struggled there’s no doubt in her now. The way she speaks, the way she looks, even the way her fingers curl against his. All of it speaks of conviction in a way he knows is not an act. He knows though Pym can be indecisive, once she’s made up her mind about something she’s going to do it.

He feels an overwhelming sense of relief that she has.

He felt it too when she realized that they were friends and trusted him, maybe even as far back as when she kept his secret without any reason to. Maybe even farther. But now he can identify the emotion. He knows the feeling has a name. Especially when connected to her. She glances over at him and he realizes his fingers have tightened around hers. He looks at her and then at Gawain.

“You’re right to be concerned,” he says. Pym opens her mouth but he shakes his head slightly and watches her press her lips together, “I have no-one to tell me how to be a husband in the Fey way. But I know that isn’t what Pym wants,” she nods, “we love each other,” Gawain looks unimpressed, “I know that isn’t what matters in a match but it does to her. So it does to me.”

“And this business of the Baptism?” He questions.

“That was my idea,” Pym says, “I am not Nimue, I don’t know how to control this or work with the Hidden. I can’t learn with them in charge like this,” she bites her lip, “they haven’t objected.”

He looks over at her in surprise and Gawain looks down like this is something he already knows.

“We have Fey here who have been Baptized,” she says.

“They killed us to make us pure,” Gawain argues back, “in the name of the God you’re going to pray to.”

“That isn’t what that God is about,” Pym says, “the Church did it. They wanted our land. There’s a difference.”

Something cold slides down his back.

“No—“

“She’s right.”

They both look at him. Lancelot marvels at how she manages to spit the truth out that. It reminds him of Squirrel. Deep down he knows it, he’s always known it, but hearing it like that makes him feel like he might be sick. He may have wanted to live in the illusion that this was to cleanse his people, that he was doing it to make them see the light. To feel his Grace. But it wasn’t about that. If it had been, there would have been less death. It’s taken months but Pym has learned and accepted the teachings. So has Squirrel. And though he’s hidden his Faith, when he’s been caught praying no-one has punished him for it. Their crusade was never about saving anyone.

It was about land. Land and power.

“Lancelot?” He meets her concerned look.

“You’re right,” he repeats, “it wasn’t about saving anyone. It never was,” he looks at Gawain, “the Baptism is to help with the Hidden, not because I’m forcing her into my Faith,” Gawain still looks, at best, annoyed, “she saved me.”

“He saved me too,” Pym says. Gawain looks surprised. Lancelot knows how she feels but the declaration catches him off guard, “you’re right. I didn’t want to get married or have that choice made for me. You don’t know what it’s like to have everyone make those choices for you. To be told you’re only worth how pretty you are or your dowery or your ability to bear sons. Or just to be quiet because you’re not powerful or brave or able to do the things that others can. Lancelot’s never treated me like that, even when he could have. Even when I’ve done things that upset him. I wouldn’t be who I am if we hadn’t met.”

“You know it won’t be easy.”

“If I wanted things to be easy I would have married Aaron,” she says, “but it would be easier if you didn’t blame him for something we both want.”

Gawain sighs.

“You both should ask for Guinevere’s blessing,” he says. Pym raises an eyebrow, “not permission, but you’re her subjects. It’s—“ he looks at Pym.

“Tradition?”

“Polite,” he says, “not every tradition is disrespectful.”

“And your blessing?” Lancelot asks. Pym glances at him but doesn’t object.  
  
“Are you asking for it?”

“Yes,” he says. Pym looks from him to Gawain and nods.

Gawain gives them both hard looks that make him look even more human before he seems to soften a bit and Lancelot finds he can breathe.

“If this is what you both want and you love each other and have saved each other,” he says. Neither of them objects to what he’s saying. They just stand there with their hands clasped, “will you at least consider having a Fey wedding?”

“Of course we were going to,” Pym says.

“And you don’t have an issue being married to a Squire?”

Pym rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“Then you have it,” he says and Lancelot truly feels as though he can breathe again. Gawain looks between them, “ask Guinevere’s blessing.”

“We will,” Pym promises.

“Thank you,” Lancelot says.

Gawain looks at both of them for a moment longer before he nods. His face seems to darken though a moment later and Lancelot turns to see Bedivere standing there. His timing is terrible, but Pym seems to relax at the sight of him. He’s clasping a Bible and Lancelot realizes what he means to do.

“Are you ready?” he asks. Pym takes a breath and then nods, “are they—“

“I’m staying,” Lancelot says and he nods, not surprised.

“As am I,” Gawain says.

Pym nods and Bedivere smiles.

“Then let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, I had a very troubling month with my dog. I hope the next update doesn't take so long but I'm so sorry if it isn't as quick as I used to do. Thank you for your patience!


	123. Spark: Part 40

Her mouth is dry as they step into the inner courtyard of the church.

The times where she’s been in this place, she’s mostly stayed near the front or accompanied Lancelot to the smaller chapels. Those are where he is most comfortable. She knows it’s a vestige of when he was with the Paladins, though she doubts any of them were more devout. He was still pushed to the side. Now it’s just where he feels comfortable. Venturing further in has never been something she’s dared to do. Certainly not into this inner part. The more she breathes in the cool air, the more the dry panic recedes. She’s Fey, after all. Out here is where she’s always felt more comfortable.

A spring cuts through, she can hear the water. Even though it’s winter.

Lancelot’s fingers tighten on hers and she looks up at him. His eyes meet hers and she sees the worry in them, but she doesn’t feel it. She realizes that the worry has eased, that there’s a calmness she’s seldom felt since she became so much closer to the Hidden.

“It’s alright,” she says. His eyes move past her and she sees Gawain incline his head, as though he too agrees, “I’ll be fine.”

It takes effort to let go of his hand but she knows it has to happen. She has to make this choice for herself. She already has, in so many ways. But she’s aware of everything as she approaches Bedivere. Even though it’s winter and most of the plants aren’t in bloom, she can feel something watching her. As if nature here is also waiting for what will happen. She does her best not to focus on it as she walks over to him.

But she does spare a thought for Nimue.

Was this how she felt walking to the Lake? This odd sense of anticipation and the promise of relief? She’s only had the Hidden so present for a short time and it feels as though they will drive her mad. Nimue was built for them and for her role, but Pym knows that sometimes she felt that way too. She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders and stands in front of the priest. She forces herself to focus on him and not the men staring at her.

“Are you ready?” Bedivere asks.

‘I am,” she says.

He nods.

“Then let’s begin.”

Pym follows along the ritual, surprising herself with how much she knows. She half expects the Hidden to do something to stop her but no vines grow, Gawain doesn’t act—nothing she’s expecting. She doesn’t even feel her Fingers come as she makes the sign of the cross and follows the rites that Bedivere instructs.

Finally he leads her into the water.

The coolness of it helps with the heat in her cheeks as the water presses the white of her dress to her skin. It’s not unbearably cold, it actually feels alright. Bedivere doesn’t seem to mind either. Though she imagines she shouldn’t, she glances over her shoulder to see Lancelot and Gawain standing next to each other, both focused on what’s happening. Lancelot looks like he wants to leap over and stop her—actually they both do. For different reasons. But both of them wait and respect that this is her decision. She turns back to Bedivere.

He blesses her again, puts a hand on her back and forehead and guides her into the water.

She looks up at Father Bedivere through the water and past him to the night sky. Even though she cannot breathe, it feels as though she’s exhaled. Like something wild and untamed in her is settling down. It feels like she’s found some kind of balance for the first time in a long time. Not that she’s fully alone in her head, but it’s more her than it is anything else. It’s peaceful, in a way that she wasn’t expecting but she’s heard Lancelot speak about. Peace in a part of her that she isn’t sure she previously was aware of.

There’s a flash of gold through the red of her hair.

Pym can’t help but turn. She knows she should have expected the Hidden to be here. The gold lights dart through the inky water, circling and filling her vision. She tries to focus on the feel of Bedivere’s arm around her, but the gold lights take her view anyway. They demand her attention, no matter what she may wish.

In the gold light, there’s a shape.

It takes a moment to understand what she’s seeing. In all the spectacular gold light and carved stone, seeing a simple wooden cup seems almost anticlimactic. Out of place. But she’s sure there’s significance to it none the less. Though it’s silhouetted against the gold of the Hidden, they start to fill it and the cup takes them all. The light leaves her vision green in it’s wake but the cup remains. A wooden cup against the green light, though she knows anything wooden would be burned by the Fey Fire the green reminds her of. A single spark of the Hidden tumbles out and wraps around the cup, pulling a thin ribbon of gold light that knots itself over and over and wraps around her fingertip. She feels a tug, as though she could reel the cup in with a flick of her wrist. But when she tries to wrap her hand around the light, the cup pulls back.

“Find it”, a voice whispers in her head, ‘find it.”

She presses her eyes closed and there’s a tug as Father Bedivere pulls her up.

She couldn’t have been under for as long as it felt, but she gasps all the same. The night air is cool and wonderful as she draws it into her lungs. She knows she should feel cold but she feels elated. It’s a fight not to laugh until she sees the smile on Bedivere’s face. And even then it’s a struggle not to laugh loudly for such a serious event. But she feels like herself again. She feels sane. And that alone feels like a reason to celebrate even before all the other things.

“How do you feel?”

“Wonderful,” she admits, taking another deep breath, “sane,” she looks down at the skewed reflection and it’s just her own face looking back at her. No Fingers, just ropes of sodden red hair that hang around her shoulders, “so much better.”

“I’m glad,” Bedivere says.

“Thank you,” she tells him, wondering how the words can feel so inconsequential in the face of what he’s done.

Lancelot is waiting when she comes out. He doesn’t seem to care that she’s wet as he pulls her close, his cloak settling around them. He quickly checks her over and she can see he’s still not fully trusting that she’s alright. But as she exhales steam, she realizes she’s more alright than she has been in a while. When his eyes finally hit hers again, she smiles up at him.

“I feel alright,” she says, “I feel—“ she struggles to find the right words, “like myself,” she confesses, “I still feel them but I feel like me.”

He looks across her face and it’s a wonderful thing to see her own relief reflected back at her. Someone’s seen her struggle and has been on board and truly helped. It’s a strange feeling of not having her problems be less important. But at the same time, it’s not as strange as it had been before she met him. His warm breath fans across her face as he relaxes slightly as well and she nearly falls into his chest.

“I suppose I’m also not going to Hell,” she admits.

“You never were,” he tells her firmly.

She opens her mouth and then presses her lips together. There’s no doubt in his face at the fact. But if she thinks back across their relationship, there’s been very little doubt when it comes to her. It’s odd how someone whose been so scarred by the world can trust the way he can—can be sure of things the way he can. It feels like such a contrast the second guessing she feels herself doing so often. But when everything gets put down, she always pushes back with the things she believes in. She does believe in him. She has for a very long time, even when she’s struggled.

“Are you cold?” He asks and she realizes they’ve been standing here for a while.

“No,” she says, “I’m enjoying being back in my head without feeling a dozen other voices and desires in there.”

He makes a sound of acknowledgement and his arms tighten around her. Out of everyone, he’s one of the few who understands. She never expected to know what it was like to have so many voices whispering to you. How being in your head alone or at least with them being quiet would be an accomplishment. But she lacks the words to say such a thing in the moment, the silence is so wonderful she’s content to just linger in it.

At least until the first raindrops hit her nose.

She’s already soaked through but Lancelot seems content to stand there and just hold her as the rain starts to fall harder. Pym knows one of them needs to be reasonable before they both catch colds standing out here, but she’s loathed to move from the position they’re in. The quiet and peace she feels is so nice, it’s hard to worry about being practical. She feels like she can trust Lancelot’s warmth rather than insisting they go inside.

“We should go inside,” he says, without moving.

“I was thinking the same,” she admits, “but it’s so nice to just stand here.”

He makes another soft noise of affirmation that seems to cut through to her core in a very pleasant way. Or maybe it’s just the fact that they are presses so close together that any sound he makes she can feel in her chest before she hears in her ears. Either way it’s such a nice thing she doesn’t want it to end, practicality be damned. It’s so nice to be able to feel without being worried about her emotions being turned on her or the Hidden taking control. He looks down at her and it feels like it’s just the two of them, the Hidden and the rest of the world being pushed to wait somewhere else. She sees the look in his eyes for what it truly is. Maybe what it’s always been, though one of them didn’t know and the other was too afraid to name it.

She doesn’t feel afraid anymore.

So she pushes herself up on her toes and closes the remaining distance between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the well wishes with my dog, it's so sweet of you. She is fine and I am fine, we really appreciate everything. And finally after all this time we have entered the fluff carnival! If you've stuck it out this long I hope the journey has been satisfying (so far) and you have your toothbrushes ready!


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